


Eleven Turns

by potionseagle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama, F/M, Minor Character Death, Romance, Time Travel, Time Turner
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2018-10-05 03:54:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 38
Words: 82,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10296875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potionseagle/pseuds/potionseagle
Summary: After the death of her boyfriend, Draco, Hermione is sent back in time to kill his killer: Tom Riddle. Romance gets in the way. Meanwhile, Draco is actually alive and well.Alternatively: Another Tomione time travel fic with a Draco twist.





	1. Prologue

"Headmaster, I- I really appreciate your faith in me. But I really don't think I'm up to this." She thought of Draco, trying and failing to choke back her sobs that threatened to overwhelm her.

"Ms. Granger, none of us are up to any of this," Dumbledore said, smiling sadly. "Unfortunately, just as I did with Mr. Potter, I must ask too much of you. It has to be you." Her mind was running in a million different directions. Images of Draco, Harry, and Voldemort flashed through her head. She knew his plan made sense, but she couldn't do it. There had to be another way.

"But why? Why me?"

"That I cannot tell you. But you will find out in time."

Hermione couldn't help but shoot him an irritated look. _So this is what it feels like to be Harry. Shouldering all responsibility with almost no information._

"So I am to risk my life with no information? Professor, I must insist- if I am to do this, I must be prepared." Hermione tried to make her voice sound stronger than she felt. She searched the wrinkles in his face, trying desperately to find understanding, but finding only her own sadness and exhaustion, as though looking into a mirror.

"I quite agree. But this information will only doom your mission, I am afraid. It has to be this way." Kindness shone through his voice, but also finality. He conjured a tissue and handed it to Hermione wordlessly. "I must ask for your answer now."

All she could see was images of Draco, snapshots of their time together, and her mind was clouded by Dumbledore's voice repeating in her mind, "I'm sorry. He's gone." She thought back to their first kiss after the Quidditch game, the moment when she found out his secret, and their last embrace, only hours ago.

But she forced herself to think of another face, another loved one. Harry. She had to do whatever it took, and she had to finish it. She steeled up all of her courage and looked Dumbledore in the eye through a film of fresh tears. "I'm in."

"Excellent," Dumbledore replied. "Why don't you pack and meet me in the Room of Requirement in half an hour? I'm afraid we don't have much time."

Hermione ran back to her dorm, watching for Death Eaters on instinct, although she knew her and Dumbledore were the only ones left in the castle. Hermione wept as she packed, thinking back to how different things were just over a year ago.

* * *

"I found you," he whispered in her ear. Hermione turned around, trying and failing to look stern.

"I'm studying. Some of us care about our NEWTs." She hid the title of the book she was reading with her elbow. She didn't want Draco to know that she was actually digging around for information on Horcruxes.

Draco's handsome face darkened for a second before he smiled playfully. "Those aren't for another year, Hermione. Besides, you've been in here for hours." He leaned over and grazed his lips against her bare neck.

"Draco, someone might see."

"No one is in the library this late but you, Granger." He used her last name playfully. After nervously looking around, Hermione said, "five minutes," before grabbing his silver and green tie and enveloping him in a long kiss.

* * *

Hermione shook her head, trying to stay in the present. She wiped her face again and started packing. There didn't seem to be much need to pack clothes that she couldn't wear. Instead, she started shuffling through her library, trying to remember what books had been published recently and stuffing all of them into her trunk. She decided to throw in _Hogwarts, A History_ , too, for sentimental reasons.

Ten minutes later, she surveyed her room approvingly. "I think I have everything but you, Crookshanks," she cooed, scooping up her cat and hugging him close. Dumbledore hadn't mentioned her bringing Crookshanks, but she couldn't bear to be separated from anyone else.

Exactly twenty-eight minutes from leaving Dumbledore's office, she made her way to the seventh floor with her trunk and her cat. She found Dumbledore standing right next to the blank stretch of wall.

"Ms. Granger, I'm glad to see you have everything." His eyes wandered over to her cat, smiling slightly. He nodded toward the unassuming wall. "There will be no need for us to go inside. I simply did not want you to pop straight into Professor Dippet's office. I'm sending you back exactly fifty-five years. You will repeat your seventh year, and I think we may be able to convince Professor Dippet-"

"We, professor?" Hermione asked. A small sprig of hope rose up within her, only to be quickly extinguished.

"Yes, we. You see, I will have you report immediately to my past self with this letter," he clarified, handing her a blank piece of parchment. Hermione stared at it, and then Dumbledore.

"I wouldn't bother trying to read it, of course. As I was saying, I think we may be able to convince Professor Dippet to make you Head Girl. There was an unfortunate incident over the summer with Olive Hornby"-Hermione thought of Myrtle's hatred of the girl who teased her shortly before her death, and how Myrtle bragged about haunting Olive, wondering if it was related-"and I know that she will be unable to carry out her duties. In the original timeline, Professor Dippet named a replacement. This time, I hope it will be you. Tom Riddle is Head Boy, of course."

Hermione felt an involuntary shudder run through her body. The idea of trying to get close to Voldemort was not one that was easy to get used to.

As though reading her mind, Dumbledore smiled and reassured her, "I have every confidence in you, Ms. Granger. During the time I am sending you back to, Tom has only two Horcruxes- the diary and the ring. The ring he wears all the time, and you will need to gain his trust to secure the diary." Dumbledore flicked his wand. "I think you will find everything you need in the front pocket of your trunk." Hermione peered in, finding about half a dozen basilisk fangs where nothing was before. "It's always good to pack a little extra," Dumble stated simply, as though he were talking about a pair of socks. "Don't you think?"

"Yes, professor," was all Hermione could muster. Her mind was too focused on the basilisk fangs that now lay in her trunk, a fresh reminder of the impossible task Dumbledore had assigned her.

Dumbledore pulled a time turner out of his cloak. Hermione looked at it incredulously. "A time turner, sir? How will I be able to turn it enough to go back in time fifty-five years? It's not possible."

"You are right, Ms. Granger, that it would be impossible to turn a time turner almost half a million times. Turning a time turner more than fifteen times makes it extremely unstable, and may not send you to the destination you intend."

"Then how-"

"The standard issue time turners, such as the one you used in your third year, use increments of one hour. This particular time turner uses increments of five years." Dumbledore handed Hermione the time turner, who accepted in gingerly.

Dumbledore simply looked at Hermione and nodded. "Eleven turns should do it."

And with that, Hermione wrapped the time turner around her neck, feeling its familiar weight. She thought of her fond memories of the time turner, and the simpler times she used it in. Then, grabbing her trunk and clinging to Crookshanks, she turned it as instructed, closing her eyes as she felt herself pulled back in time.


	2. Sorting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this chapter pretty quickly to catch up with where this story is at on another site. I'm planning on updating weekly (every Sunday) after this. Thanks for reading! :)

Hermione landed in the middle of a hallway on the seventh floor. The force of the spell had thrown her back, leaving her staring up at the Barnabas the Barmy tapestry just opposite the Room of Requirement. She made her way to a standing position, brushing off dirt from the hard stone floor and straightening out her uniform. _This won't be my uniform for long, as I'm now in a completely different time._ She fought off her panic and devastation, focusing instead on her goal. _Find Dumbledore, just find Dumbledore._

Then, just as she started toward what was- or would be, rather- Professor McGonagall's office, she heard giggling and footsteps heading straight toward her. Hermione quickly paced in front of the Room of Requirement thinking, _I need a place to hide_ , until a door appeared; she slipped behind it just in time. The room was small, no bigger than a broom closet, but as the room tended to, it fulfilled her purposes perfectly.

Hermione thought about how she would get to the Transfiguration professor's office without anyone noticing her. _This would be a good time to have an invisibility cloak_ , Hermione thought, irritated for a moment with Dumbledore and her own lack of preparedness. She ran through spells and charms in her head, eventually landing on the Disillusionment Charm as her best bet. She had never performed it before, but she remembered the incantation from _Defensive Magical Theory_. Hermione let out a hollow laugh. Umbridge's class proved useful after all. She performed the spell and left her trunk and an annoyed Crookshanks in the Room of Requirement. "Sh, I'll be back for you soon." This did not seem to comfort the orange ball of fur, but Crookshanks complied, not following her as she left the room.

Five minutes later, she found herself in front of Dumbledore's office. Hesitating momentarily, she straightened her spine and knocked. Then, she quickly remembered herself and performed the counterspell so that Dumbledore would actually be able to see her.

"What can I do for you, Miss…" Dumbledore trailed off, eyeing Hermione curiously. He looked almost exactly the same. His hair was auburn rather than silver, but the biggest change was in his eyes. He no longer looked- for lack of a better word- old. Although he seemed stressed, likely due to Grindewald, the exhaustion didn't consume him as it did in 1998.

"Sir, I believe you told-" she stopped herself, realizing how confusing that would send. "I was told to give you this," Hermione finished instead.

Dumbledore surveyed her curiously through the same half-moon spectacles, reading over the note he had written himself, his eyes widening with every line. At last, he finished, smiling. He scrawled something on a new piece of parchment and handed it to an owl Hermione had never seen before, whispering before the owl soared away.

"Well, then, Ms. Prewett," he winked as he emphasized her new last name, "I believe we have a new transfer student."

Hermione stared at him. "Sir, Prewett? That's not my last name. I'm-"

"It's best that I don't know anything about you, Ms. Prewett," Dumbledore cut her off, emphasizing her last name once more.

"Why Prewett?"

"They are a large, but old, pure-blooded family. Large enough that no one will question where you came from, especially because there are no Prewetts currently attending Hogwarts."

"Why do I have to be a pureblood?"

"I'm not sure exactly why," Dumbledore said quietly. "The letter insisted. It will certainly draw less attention."

Hermione wasn't sure if she should believe him, but she nodded. She would certainly earn more respect from Voldemort as a pureblood, though it irritated her to have to shed her Muggle-born heritage that she had always worn so proudly.

"That makes sense, I suppose. How should I answer questions about the Prewetts? And life before… now?"

"Good questions, Ms. Prewett. You were taught at Beauxbatons before now. Although your family is not French, your parents were good friends with the headmaster. While you and your family were vacationing over the summer in Paris, you were unfortunately involved in a duel involving some of Grindewald's fanatics. You survived, but your parents did not."

"So why am I not back at Beauxbatons?"

"How about we say that you wanted to avoid the war? And you have family here- the Prewetts."

Hermione quickly absorbed her new back story, but couldn't help but feel a little panicked by this. "Are you sure no one knows them, Professor?"

"Many people know them, of course. But it is well-known that the family does not all see eye-to-eye, so they are not all in contact with one another. I have written to Anastasia Prewett, one of the oldest members of the family. I have saved her life on more than one occasion, you see." Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled. "I have told her that you need a new identity because Grindewald's followers are after you, after they killed the rest of your family. I see no reason why she should not agree to speak of you as her niece."

"Was that all in the note, sir?"

Dumbledore merely smiled in response. "Lemon drop?"

* * *

Because she could not be more precise in using her time turner, Hermione had arrived about a week and a half before term started. She never met with Dippet, as she had expected, and Dumbledore simply told her everything was taken care of. Her "aunt" had agreed to the plan, and Dumbledore assured her that Dippet was all too happy to allow her to be Head Girl and not have to think of another replacement. As for Hermione, she spent her time wandering around the castle or confined to the Head room, trying to learn French when not lost in her own memories.

When the day finally came to get ready for her eighth opening feast, she couldn't help but think of the her last feast as a seventh year, a year ago today.

* * *

Hermione nervously fiddled with her red and gold tie as she steeled herself to enter the Great Hall, knowing the whispers that would follow her entrance.

As she went to sit down in her usual place, Ron avoided her eyes. Instead, she sat opposite Neville. "Hi, Hermione," Neville greeted her kindly. "How was your summer?"

"It was… I've had better," Hermione finished.

Neville nodded sympathetically. "My gran reckoned he would defeat You-Know-Who. Now it's hard to know what to think. I think we should keep the DA going, though. Even if we have a decent Defense professor, we could use the extra practice."

"Good idea, Neville" Hermione replied, half-listening. Although it had been months ago, Harry's death felt too fresh to talk about without pain. She could still see him sprawled out on the floor of Dumbledore's office…

"Hermione?"

"Yes, Neville?"

"You'll use the enchanted coins, then?"

"Oh, yes. Yes, of course." They ate their food in silence after that, which Hermione preferred. She did her best to block out the whispers all around her.

"I heard she was dating Draco," she heard Lavender's familiar whisper. "And he let them in."

"But she was his best friend!" Parvati exclaimed, her voice breathy but not quiet.

"I'm sorry, Neville, but I should be going," Hermione said suddenly.

"But you've barely touched your food!"

Hermione rushed out of the Great Hall, holding back tears, but not without locking eyes with Ron, who was staring at her with nothing but hatred.

* * *

Tom Riddle walked into the Great Hall, straightening his tie and making his way over the Slytherin table. His followers had saved him a seat, and were regarding him with the fear that he knew many mistook for admiration.

Shortly after Tom sat down, the Sorting began. He smiled and clapped politely as new Slytherins made their way to the far table, while he let his mind wander. After the Sorting, Professor Dippet made his way up to make his customary long speech. Tom had mastered looking incredibly attentive. Feeling the cool presence of his Head Boy badge over his crisp shirt, Tom felt the mask was well worth it.

"Good evening, students, new and old," he begun. "Before I greet you, though, we have one more student to sort." In typical Dippet fashion, he paused for dramatic effect. _Did the little first year get lost?_ , Tom thought to himself, amused. "We have our first ever transfer student, Hermione Prewett." _Prewett_ , Tom scanned his mind. He knew that name. _Blood traitors_ , he remembered. "She has been attending Beauxbatons until now, but has recently lost her parents to Grindewald's forces, and now joins us to be closer to her remaining family." Dippet kept talking, but Tom stopped listening, instead surveying the new girl. _She's a mess_ , he thought to himself. Her tie was askew and her hair was a fright.

Suddenly, Tom had the sense that someone was in his space. Turning away from Dippet for a moment, he saw Lestrange leaning over toward him. "Head Girl," Lestrange half-whispered, half-mouthed, and gestured up at the new girl.

Confused, Tom tuned back into Dippet's speech, catching only, "and without further ado, I will let the Sorting Hat do its job."

The new girl, Prewett, surveyed the crowd nervously through a curtain of bushy hair and shifty eyes. She sat in the Sorting chair and looked around again. Dumbledore, who had placed the hat on all the first-years, had taken his seat long ago. Realizing that no one was coming, perhaps, Prewett gingerly picked up the hat, looking at the Headmaster as though to ask if she was doing the right thing. Dippet was already deep in conversation with Professor Merrythought, however, and paid her no attention. Finally, Prewett sat up straight and placed the hat on her head.

* * *

Five minutes into her second go at seventh year, and Hermione was already feeling deeply agitated. Dippet had made her stand up at the front of the room for nearly ten minutes while he used ten words for every necessary one, finally allowing her to be sorted, but not even bothering to watch or hand her the hat. After staring into the sea of eyes, Hermione finally grabbed the hat herself and yanked it on top of her head as gracefully as possible.

_"Ah, a time traveler. I don't get those often."_ Hermione shifted uncomfortably in her seat. _"Don't worry, I won't tell. I see you were a Gryffindor in your time… No that won't do, won't do at all."_

_You also wanted to put me in Ravenclaw_ , Hermione thought.

_"You could do well in Ravenclaw, but I also think you would do well in Slytherin."_

_Not Slytherin_ , was Hermione's first reaction. _Although I suppose it would be useful…_

_"What a very Slytherin thing to think."_ Even though Hermione couldn't see the hat, she was almost certain it was smirking. _"Still, I think it better be…_ RAVENCLAW!" It shouted to the whole room.

Hermione shakily made her way to a table of blue and bronze, forcing a smile as the Ravenclaws smiled shyly back at her. She sat across from a pale girl with big blue eyes and dark hair long enough that Hermione couldn't see where it ended from across the table.

After a minute, the dark-haired girl spoke. "You're staring," she said simply.

"Right. I'm Hermione," she paused for a moment, stopping herself from giving her real name, "Prewett."

"Nice to meet you. I'm Lyra Lovegood," Lyra replied dreamily. Hermione couldn't help but smile. Lyra reminded her a lot of Luna. After the introduction, Lyra stared up at the starry Great Hall ceiling.

"Are you a seventh year, too?" Hermione interrupted.

Lyra looked back at her. "Yes. You know we've never had a transfer student before."

"I didn't know," Hermione lied. "It was very nice of Professor Dippet to allow me to transfer. What classes are you taking?"

"Herbology, Ancient Runes, Transfiguration, Charms, Divination. What are you taking?"

"I'm taking Ancient Runes, Transfiguration, Herbology, and Charms as well. I'll also be taking Potions, Arithmancy, and Defense Against the Dark Arts."

Lyra, who was busy separating the olives from the rest of her food, looked up suddenly and responded in a gently scolding tone. "Divination is very important."

Hermione had to stifle a laugh. "Yes, unfortunately I don't have the gift." Lyra nodded solemnly in response, seeming to accept her answer.

Some of the other students at the Ravenclaw table were openly staring at the exchange. _So the Lovegoods aren't popular in this time, either_ , thought Hermione. There was another pair of eyes staring at her from the next table over, though. Hermione could feel them like invisible pins pricking her. She turned around and met a pair of beautiful, but empty, gray eyes. They belonged to a handsome boy whose regal air and paleness reminded Hermione a bit of Draco, but his dark hair and blank expression made his effect quite different.

Hermione turned back around and returned to her food, wondering a few moments later if she had just met the eyes of Tom Riddle before they turned red permanently. She had never seen Tom Riddle; Harry had seen him in several memories, and Ginny had the unfortunate opportunity to meet him, but Hermione had only heard secondhand accounts, and it never seemed particularly important to ask about his appearance. Certainly no one mentioned how attractive he was. _He's already killed multiple people by now_ , Hermione reminded herself, disgusted. _Murderers are not attractive._

* * *

An hour later, Hermione was making her way up to the Head common room, having to remind herself to breathe every few steps. She had noticed the boy with the gray eyes head up a while back, and had stayed quite late to avoid the inevitable. _You're just going to meet Tom Riddle. Not a big deal._

As she entered the room, she took in the surroundings once more. The room hadn't changed much in the next fifty-odd years. The common room still had the same black leather couch with cozy armchairs in cream and brown, purposefully avoiding any house affiliation. Crookshanks was curled up in the dark brown chair, staring up at Hermione. Missing from the room, though, was Tom Riddle. Hermione wasn't sure if she should be relieved or not. Part of her wanted to get this first meeting over with, so she could get one step closer to completing her task. Instead she sighed and curled up with Hogwarts, a History, which she had left in the polished black end table. Crookshanks made room for her as she sat down. Her mind was racing with the events of the day and nerves over meeting her Head counterpart, but all was forgotten for a few blissful hours after a few minutes with the familiar text.


	3. Family Resemblance

"Ah, you must be Ms. Prewett," a familiar voice said behind Hermione. Hermione turned around to see Professor Slughorn making her way behind her. They were standing in the hallway on the way to the dungeon. "My name is Professor Slughorn, I believe you are on your way to my Potions class. Allow me to show you the way."

"Oh, thank you Professor," Hermione responded politely.

"I'm sure you must know Anastasia Prewett?" Slughorn inquired. "We are old friends, of course, from Hogwarts."

"Oh, yes." Hermione recognized her name as her new aunt. "My aunt. She has been really wonderful since the death of my parents." Hermione didn't have to put on a sad expression as she thought of her own parents, because although they were alive and well in Australia fifty-five years from now, they were also blissfully ignorant of their only daughter.

"Of course, of course," Slughorn paused for a few seconds before continuing, "You know she was awarded Order of Merlin, First Class, for her work with brewing antidotes…" Slughorn continued, but Hermione had stopped listening, realizing that they would both be late to her first class. "Dear me, look at the time! We better hurry. We'll talk more later. I have a gathering of students every few weeks. I'll hope to see you there."

"Of course, Professor," Hermione replied, trying to sound enthusiastic. It would be a good opportunity to spend some quality time with Voldemort, at least. _My favorite activity._

As they entered the room, Hermione noticed that as in her year, there weren't very many students who had moved on to NEWT-level Potions. The room hadn't changed much, either; there were three seats at each table. The table closest to her was filled with Slytherins, including the one she suspected was Tom Riddle, sitting with a sullen-looking girl and a handsome blond wizard Hermione had to imagine was a Malfoy due to the strong family resemblance. An extremely strong family resemblance, actually… they had the same hair, the same jaw, the same face, almost. There were only two discernible differences between them: this Slytherin was much tanner, and his eyes were deep blue instead of gray like Draco's.

Voldemort's intense gaze interrupted her thoughts. She quickly broke eye contact with him and continued scanning the room while trying to avoid openly staring at the blond boy. The next table had two Ravenclaw girls and a Hufflepuff boy who looked rather smug. That left two tables: the one by the window, filled with Gryffindors, and the only one that had an empty seat- two, in fact- currently occupied only by a beautiful but rather disheveled looking girl adorned in blue and bronze who Hermione didn't recognize from the feast. Hermione took the available seat, and as she did the girl jumped up, as though startled, and looked up at Hermione accusingly. "Who are you?" The Ravenclaw demanded.

"My name is Hermione Prewett." Hermione held out her hand. "I'm a transfer student."

The girl looked at Hermione's hand and quickly shook it, as though ripping off a band-aid. "We don't have transfer students." The girl didn't bother to give Hermione her name, and Slughorn dove into his lesson before Hermione could ask.

"Today," began Slughorn, "we will be brewing Polyjuice Potion. Can anyone tell me what Polyjuice Potion does?"

Hermione felt her hand shoot up automatically. Slughorn looked pleased. "Yes, Ms. Prewett?"

"Polyjuice Potion allows the user to assume the appearance of another, though only temporarily. It's a tricky potion, and takes about a month to complete. You need something from the person you are trying to become in order to take their form."

"Very good, Ms. Prewett." Slughorn launched into the required preparation before brewing, and Hermione felt a pair of eyes staring at her again.

* * *

"Lyra, we have to go, or we'll be late for Herbology." Hermione prodded Lyra, who was sitting next to her in the Great Hall in body if not in spirit.

"Oh, yes, all right. I do love Herbology, although there are so many healing properties of plants they don't teach you here." Lyra followed behind as Hermione rushed to the classroom; she didn't want last pick of the seats again, especially because Herbology, like Potions, involved a lot of group work.

"You know the castle very well," Lyra observed, no accusation in her voice. "I never take this passageway."

"I got here a week early, and I spent it exploring the castle," Hermione lied easily.

"Take care. Dippet keeps baby dragons somewhere in the castle." Hermione had to stifle a laugh at Lyra's comment, and felt comforted knowing the strangeness of the Lovegoods went back decades. She also thought of Norbert- or Norberta, really- and had to smile.

As Hermione and Lyra walked into the greenhouse, it was empty save a few Slytherins and the strange girl from earlier. Voldemort sat with the Draco-look-alike again, and a boy she had seen next to him at the Great Hall the night before. In the next table was the girl who sat with them earlier, and a boy who had the same nearly-ill look about him as she did. Behind them was the girl who Hermione sat next to in Potions and a Slytherin boy who had his arm around her.

Lyra and Hermione sat on the opposite side of the room. "Who is that girl?" Hermione asked Lyra in a low voice, trying to subtly gesture.

"Who?" Lyra completely missed who Hermione was indicating, staring intently at the desk and not bothering to lower her voice.

"The Ravenclaw girl."

"Oh. That's Olive Hornby. She's a bit strange." Normally Hermione would laugh at hearing a Lovegood call someone else strange, but in this case it was true. "She's been going with Almus Dippet since third year." Hermione assumed that must be the Slytherin boy next to her.

"Dippet? That's the Headmaster's son?"

"No, they're distant relations. I don't think the Headmaster likes him very much," Lyra replied matter-of-factly.

As Lyra and Hermione talked, more students shuffled in, and a red-faced Hufflepuff boy looked nervously at Hermione as he took the seat next to her.

"Hi, Todd," Luna greeted him, without looking up.

"I'm Hermione," Hermione supplied.

"I know. I mean, I'm Todd. Todd Newcastle." He held out his hand, and Hermione shook it. His hands were clammy.

"It's nice to meet you."

"Todd usually sits with me," Lyra interjected, "so I suppose you're in his seat."

Hermione smiled at Todd awkwardly. "I do hope that's alright with you."

"Y-yes. Of course." Todd replied, knocking over the ink he had pulled out of his bag.

Hermione couldn't help but let out a sigh. This was going to be a long year.

* * *

Tom smirked to himself as he assessed the new Head Girl out of the corner of his eye. First Olive, now Lyra and Todd- certainly an interesting choice of friends. Olive barely had two brain cells to rub together, but used to get by off of a combination of Almus and charm. Even her charm, though, had dwindled ever since she found the greasy first-year dead in the bathroom. Lyra was an outcast, and Todd was the pathetic mudblood who followed her around. What he couldn't understand is why Dippet would allow such an ordinary girl become Head Girl, and why Hogwarts was suddenly accepting transfer students. It seems there wasn't much competition to size up, but he was curious about why this girl suddenly popped up.

"The new girl is obsessed with you, Malfoy," came Lestrange's voice, interrupting Tom's train of thought.

Tom looked over to Malfoy, who winked, laughing a little bit. "Not exactly my type," he replied. Tom glanced back at the new girl, whose sleeve was now covered in ink. She was focused on Todd right now, clearly irritated, but she had been staring at Malfoy all through Potions this morning with a faraway expression on her face. Class started and her hand shot up again. Tom made a mental note on her seeming crush on Malfoy. It might be useful if she turns out to be more interesting- or more competition- than he originally thought.

* * *

After a long first day of classes where Hermione tried to avoid drawing attention to herself, she made her way back up to her common room, too exhausted to hope for anything but cuddling up with Crookshanks. Saving the world would have to wait.

Unfortunately, the common room didn't give her that option. As she stepped through the portrait, she found an unwelcome presence in her favorite brown armchair.

"Hello," the boy in the armchair said in a smooth, velvety voice. The voice would probably be seductive to most people, but it sent the wrong kind of chill down Hermione's spine. "My name is Tom Riddle. You must be the new Head Girl. I've been looking forward to meeting you." His eyes glinted red momentarily, and Hermione had to focus to keep standing up straight while her heart raced inside her chest. _So he's really going to pretend he doesn't know me, despite the fact that we've had classes together all day and he's stared a hole through my head._

"It's a pleasure to meet you. My name is Hermione Prewett." Hermione tried to inject as much sweetness as she could into her voice, but couldn't help thinking it probably sounded more fake than his. "I've just transferred here." She knew the polite thing to do would be to shake his hand, but her fingernails were digging into her copy of _New Theory of Numerology_ instead.

"From Beauxbatons, _oiu?_ " His expression remained the same, but Hermione couldn't help but feel as though he were looking at her like an insect under a microscope. _It's been just over twenty-four hours and he's already suspicious of me._

Hermione's mind raced. Although she was a quick learner, she didn't want to get into a conversation in French after having only spent a week on it. "Yes," she replied, thinking on her feet, "I hope you don't mind, but I really don't want to speak French. My mom taught it to me, and she passed away recently. I can't speak it without- without"-Hermione paused and channeled her exhaustion and panic into shedding a tear-"thinking of her."

She saw a flash of annoyance on Voldemort's smooth face before he twisted it into an expression of sympathy. "I apologize. I thought speaking French might be a comfort, but I will of course avoid the language if you prefer. I wanted to meet to go over our patrol schedules, but I see now might be a bad time. Perhaps before breakfast tomorrow. Eight o'clock." It wasn't a question.

Hermione nodded, trying to look as pathetic as possible. "I really appreciate it, Tom." She forced herself to use his name, but saw no reaction from him. "Shall I meet you in here?"

"Excellent. I hope you have pleasant dreams." And with that, her first meeting with Voldemort was over as quickly as it has begun as he turned around and made his way to his own room. _That wasn't so bad. Now I just have to gain his trust, his Horcruxes, and his life._

* * *

It was the same room that she kept returning to. She didn't want to go inside, but felt her feet leading there again, over the marble floor, approaching the gray stone in the center. She knew what lay underneath.

"I'll be outside, Ms. Granger." His voice was far away, and she could hear his footsteps receding.

As though another person was moving her body for her, she watched as her hands slid over the stone, pushing it aside. It was the same image she had seen hours before, but then at least she knew it was a boggart. _"I'm sorry. He's gone."_ Dumbledore's words echoed in her head as she stared down at the beautiful face she had grown to love, even paler now than she was accustomed to. She stroked his hair, crying, and wished his often-teasing gray eyes would stare up at her, but never again.

* * *

Hermione awoke with a start. Judging from the inky color of the sky outside, it was the middle of the night. She had fallen asleep in the armchair. Crookshanks looked up at her from her lap, nudging her gently. Hermione pulled Crookshanks into a tight hug as she fought off the memories that she had dreamt about every night. She resolved to talk to Dumbledore about Dreamless Sleep Potion as she headed up to bed. Hermione knew she needed to focus; she needed this war to end eventually. It had already taken too much from her.

* * *

Fifty-five years later, Draco Malfoy was sitting in Hestia Jones' living room with his mother, Narcissa Malfoy, also hoping for an end to the war.

"Draco, stop sulking," Narcissa gently chided him. "I'm sure you will hear from your friend soon."

"She's not my friend," Draco said through gritted teeth. Narcissa didn't respond, instead returning to her _Witch Weekly_. Though more tolerant than his now-deceased father, his mother had a difficult time accepting that Draco was dating a Muggle-born, despite the fact that Hermione and him had been openly together for well over a year, or as openly together as anyone could be while in hiding.

"Draco, you know she's on an important mission for the Order," Hestia interjected.

"That's what everyone keeps telling me," Draco muttered. While Hermione had been at Hogwarts last year, he received long letters from her frequently, and even last summer she had managed to find ways to update him every few days. The two weeks of complete silence- and possibility of months, according to Hestia- was becoming increasingly difficult to bear. _Hermione, what have you gotten yourself into now?_


	4. Slug Club

Tom Riddle woke up early the next morning, as he tended to. He got dressed and worked on a Potions essay at his desk. _This is already shaping up to be a dull year_ , he thought miserably, as he wrote about the myriad of possibilities with a Polyjuice Potion gone wrong. Unfortunately, opening the Chamber would not prove to be an option this year, so he would have to spend his time cementing the loyalty of his followers, an important but nonetheless unpleasant task.

At five to eight, Riddle slung his school bag over his shoulder and headed down to his meeting with Prewett. He rolled his eyes inwardly; he hoped this meeting didn't also end in a fit of tears. Surprisingly, Prewett was already downstairs, furiously scribbling on a piece of parchment.

"Morning, Prewett. You're early."

* * *

Hermione woke up at seven o'clock in a sweat. _I can't keep putting this off_ , Hermione thought. _I need to figure out a plan_.

Hermione racked her brain for all she knew about Tom Riddle. She could already tell from her observations yesterday that he was quite well-liked, and he seemed to already have his Death Eaters in order, as Hermione suspected. He didn't need another follower or admirer. But what other approaches could she take? If she antagonized him, she would risk her life, and that would hardly help with getting him to spill his secrets. And if she tried to befriend him, he would dismiss her. But if she kept her distance, he would forget about her.

After copious notes (all written in disappearing ink, of course), and re-reading passages about Voldemort in several of the books she had brought with her from the future, Hermione decided the best course of action was to make Voldemort come to her. He already seemed suspicious of her background, so she could play that up- but not too much, or she would risk forcing a confrontation. Dumbledore had taught Harry that Voldemort loved trophies- she would just have to make herself one worth collecting.

Feeling slightly comforted by her planning, and trying not to think of the fact that she was play cat-and-mouse with Voldemort, she crept downstairs. Luckily, he wasn't there yet, so she started working on her Potions essay.

A few minutes later, she heard footsteps and looked up to find herself face-to-face again with her least favorite person.

"Morning, Prewett. You're early."

Hermione forced a smile. "I didn't sleep great last night," she shared.

"Sorry to hear it," Riddle responded a bit abruptly as he sat down and took out a piece of parchment. Hermione couldn't help but notice the elegant way he moved- as though everything was one fluid motion. "Now, for the patrols. I discussed tentative schedules with the other prefects on the train, but we will need to finalize and meet soon about future patrols. Patrols are planned out for this week already, which have been going as scheduled. There is an empty slot for Saturday night, which I was hoping you could take along with Charlus Potter." Hermione's stomach did a little backflip. "He's one of the Gryffindor prefects, and also missed our train meeting."

"That would be fine. Why did he miss the meeting?," Hermione asked, attempting to make conversation.

"I don't concern myself with other people's affairs. You can tell him at breakfast about the patrol." _Merlin, he's bossier than I am._

"I suppose I can do that. I think we should meet this weekend to discuss the patrols and the semester as a whole. Let's say Sunday morning, after breakfast. We can hold the meeting here." Riddle opened his mouth slightly to respond, but Hermione kept talking. "I think it would make sense for you to alert everyone-" Riddle looked distinctly irritated now. "-since I'm new."

"We can hold the meeting here, but I don't want you bringing people around to the common room all the time. I think we should pre-approve any gatherings." Hermione inwardly rolled her eyes at Riddle's bald attempt to regain control of their meeting.

"I was planning on throwing a party with all of my old friends, but you told me just in time." Hermione reminded herself that she was supposed to be somewhat nice to Riddle, but it was so difficult. "I would also prefer if you didn't have any friends," she inadvertently choked out the last word, thinking of his Death Eaters, "in our common room," she finished.

Hermione noticed Riddle's face twist itself into a knowing smirk. _Does he know I know about his Death Eaters? How would he know that?_ Hermione shifted in her seat, slipping her fingers around her vine wand, terrified but steeling herself for confrontation.

"Don't worry," he replied after what felt like ages. "I won't bring any girls up here." He smirked and left the common room. Hermione felt heat rise up in her cheeks. _Of course that's what he would think_ , she scolded herself, letting her grip on her wand relax.

* * *

Before sitting at her new House table, she visited her old one to deliver the message to Charlus that he was stuck patrolling Saturday night. Hermione quickly realized that she had no idea what Charlus looked like. _Not all families could have as strong a family resemblance as the Malfoys_ , she mused. After asking a few friendly Gryffindors that made her miss her old House, she finally located Charlus Potter. Now that she knew he was a Potter, she could see the resemblance; his features were similar to Harry's in shape, but his eyes and hair were the same chocolate brown, and his hair was neatly parted rather than hopelessly messy.

"Hi, you must be Charlus. I'm Hermione, the new Head Girl."

Charlus took a minute to answer, as he was in the middle of eating. "Hi, Hermione. It's a pleasure to meet you," he finally replied, giving her a questioning look.

"Riddle mentioned you missed the train. I did as well, and I guess they stuck us with Saturday night patrol. Shall we meet in the entrance hall?" Charlus was very agreeable, and seemed less annoyed about the designation than Hermione had expected.

After making her way over the Ravenclaw table, Hermione waved to Lyra and sat across from her, who had her Divination dreams textbook next to her plate. Before Hermione could even greet Lyra, a Ravenclaw boy Hermione recognized from Herbology the previous day sat down next to her unexpectedly. "Hello, Lyra," he nodded to Lyra, who gave him a small smile but otherwise didn't look up from her book.

He turned to Hermione, his face arranged in a smile that reminded Hermione uncomfortably of Cormac McLaggen, though they looked nothing alike. Reginald was traditionally good-looking- tall, broad and tan with light brown hair and bright green eyes. "I'm Reginald Bones. Sorry I wasn't here to welcome you at the opening feast. I was detained."

"I heard you got hexed by a third year boy on the train," Lyra interjected.

Reginald looked rather annoyed at the interruption. "Yes, well. He surprised me and-" He was saved from explaining further by a rush of owls entering the Great Hall. Hermione was surprised when a tawny owl dropped a note into her lap. Opening it curiously, Hermione couldn't help but inwardly groan as she read.

_Dear Hermione,_

_Please accept this invitation for dinner in my office at eight o'clock Friday with a few of my favorite students._

_Warmly,_

_Horace Slughorn_

Hermione looked up to find Reginald inches from her face, reading over her shoulder. "I see you've been invited, too. Bones is an old wizarding family, you know." Hermione didn't bother responding, but that didn't slow Reginald down. "Would you like to go together? I'll make sure you don't get lost." He flashed a smile that was apparently meant to be inviting but looked to Hermione like he was planning to eat her.

Hermione tried to think of a good excuse, but couldn't. She reluctantly agreed, privately thinking that Friday couldn't come slowly enough.

Against her wishes, the rest of the week flew by. Although Hermione had already done her seventh year, the material was different enough in 1943 that Hermione felt as though it were a new school year, not to mention the fact that she had to adjust to all new classmates, most of them rather unpleasant. Reginald took the "yes" to Slughorn's first gathering as an invitation to sit next to her in half her classes, making Defense Against the Dark Arts particularly unbearable as Lyra wasn't there to act as a buffer, and Reginald had become her de facto dueling partner. At least he was willing to work with her, though; Potions with Olive Hornby regularly required Hermione to do the work of three people by herself. Luckily, she had some experience with brewing Polyjuice Potion.

* * *

On Friday night, Hermione was deeply regretting her decision to accept Reginald's invitation. She was trying and failing to help her hair lay flat when she heard a knock on her bedroom door. She opened the door to find Tom Riddle on the other side.

"You have a visitor," he paused to shoot her an irritated look, "in our common room." As though to put Hermione in a worse mood, he pronounced every word as though it were a sentence.

As Hermione stepped through the door to their common room without replying to Riddle, she saw that Reginald was, indeed, there. She had to stop herself from laughing when she saw that he was trying (and failing) to prevent Crookshanks from scratching him. "Hello, Reginald."

"Hermione. You look amazing." Hermione had to stop herself from shuddering as Reginald eyed her like a piece of meat. She instantly regretted the small amount of effort she put into her hair.

Hermione saw Voldemort start to make his way to the portrait hole. Still irritated at him, she called out, "Riddle! You're on your way to Slughorn's office, too, aren't you?"

Riddle turned slowly and looked at her with murderous eyes. "Yes, I am. But I don't want to disturb-"

"Don't be ridiculous. You should walk with us." Apparently Riddle's veneer of politeness was stronger than his clear repulsion to the idea, as he agreed. It was difficult to tell who was more upset with this arrangement: Riddle or Reginald. Although Voldemort would probably not be her first choice of a buffer, she was trying to spend more quality time with him. And the arrangement forced Reginald to make himself useful by preventing Riddle from cursing her on the spot.

The trio descended into silence as they left the common room. Reginald started talking about Quidditch, and Hermione quickly learned that he was keeper and captain of the Ravenclaw team. Once he dove into strategy, Hermione tuned him out as she was used to doing with Ron and Harry. She was interrupted from her thoughts, though, when she caught a familiar name. "Lyra plays Quidditch?" It was difficult to hide her shock. She tried to imagine Luna or Lyra on a broom, but the image wouldn't register.

"She's incredible," Reginald responded enthusiastically. "The best seeker I've ever seen. You watch her and it's like she's in some sort of trance, but then she dives for what looks like nothing and comes back with the snitch. It's insane, really."

"I can't wait to watch her play," Hermione responded mostly to humor Reginald, but she was genuinely a bit interested. Remembering their third wheel, Hermione turned to Riddle, asking, "What about you, Riddle? Do you play?" Hermione couldn't imagine Voldemort catching quaffles, but Lyra had surprised her so far.

"No," he responded curtly before darting into Slughorn's office without another word. Apparently his patience had worn out.

Reginald and Hermione followed him in, with Reginald's arm around Hermione. "Would you mind getting me a drink?" Hermione asked him sweetly. Luckily she had plenty of experience ridding herself of impulsive date choices.

"What would you like?"

"Firewhisky, I think." _I'm going to need something strong to get through tonight._

Hermione took Reginald's momentary absence as an opportunity to insert herself into Riddle and Slughorn's conversation. As she approached, she noticed that Riddle had a fake smile plastered on his face. _How does Slughorn not see through this?_

"Professor," Hermione interrupted. "I'm sorry to interrupt," she lied, "but I just wanted to thank you for the invitation." Riddle's smile remained firmly rooted in place, but she could see his eyebrows narrow momentarily before returning to their position. It was so quick that Hermione would have thought she imagined it had she not known Riddle as Voldemort.

"Not at all, m'dear. You've impressed me this week. It's clear that you've inherited your aunt's knack for potions. Have you given any thought to what you might want to do after school?" Hermione had given it plenty of thought in her own time; having finished her seventh year back home, she had accepted her place with the Order of the Phoenix, putting her own life on hold indefinitely. Now, though, she knew that she would be lucky if she escaped Azkaban for killing the Head Boy standing mere feet away from her. Dumbledore didn't have to tell her that there would be no returning to her own time; she knew little about the intricacies of time travel but still knew enough to know that there was only one direction: backward.

In response to Slughorn's question, Hermione allowed herself to indulge in the fantasy that she would have a future in this world of the past. "Honestly, Professor, I would love to teach eventually. With my parents gone, Hogwarts already is starting to feel like home." She added the last sentence for Riddle's benefit. He had no perceptible reaction, but he was so unreadable that Hermione wasn't deterred. As Slughorn started to go through a list of people he wanted to introduce Hermione to, Hermione saw a genuine smirk pull at the left corner of Riddle's mouth before she felt a drink in her hand and a hand at her waist.

"Ah, Reginald," Slughorn greeted him before turning to Hermione. "I see you make friends fast, Ms. Prewett," Slughorn said, winking and chuckling. "I'll leave you two alone. Come, Riddle, I'll introduce you…" Slughorn's voice trailed off as he dragged Riddle away, leaving her with Reginald and a stiff drink. At least one of those things were welcome.

A few hours later, Hermione had managed to successfully dodge Reginald's lips, but she was a bit drunker than she would have liked, had she been sober enough to care. She was hiding in a corner with another glass of firewhisky, when suddenly, she felt lips brush lightly against her ear. "You haven't been spending much time with your date tonight," a familiar voice whispered before Hermione could tell who she originally thought was Reginald to sod off. "Meet me out in the hallway in two minutes."


	5. Prefects and Power Struggles

"Meet me out in the hallway in two minutes." His voice was commanding, but still seductive. He couldn't know the effect it would have on her as it made her ache for home and for Draco. She knew Malfoy probably just wanted a bit of fun, and had it been anyone else, she would have been furious at them for acting so boldly. But part of her wanted to meet him in the hallway, anyway. She knew it wasn't the right Malfoy- her Malfoy- but it would be comforting. Didn't she deserve it? Hadn't she given up everything to give everyone a new future? She should be allowed to live in the present. It was also the first time she had heard Malfoy's voice, and she wasn't prepared for the similarity. His whisper reminded her of every stolen moment with Draco her sixth year. She missed his touch, his smile, and his rare laughs. She could feel tears coming on as she rushed out of Slughorn's office without any goodbyes, and pushed past Malfoy in the hallway, whose expression she didn't take notice of as she headed for her room to allow herself to cry.

Once she got to her room, she didn't hold back. Her body shook with sobs for what felt like hours as she let her tears fall onto Crookshanks. She had no idea how long she spent like this because eventually she had cried herself to sleep, remembering in her dreams another Slug Club, another Malfoy, another time. A better one.

* * *

Taking Cormac McLaggen had not been the best idea Hermione ever had; throwing people off the trail of her and Draco was not worth it. Cormac made a grab for her under the mistletoe, and she made a run for it. Hiding behind a rather tall wizard from the Ministry, Hermione saw Draco sneak in while Slughorn was distracted. She popped her head out and made eye contact. _Over here_ , he mouthed, gesturing to an adjacent corner.

Hermione looked around haphazardly while she made her way over the Draco. "I'm not sure this such a good idea, Draco," she whispered. "Someone will see you, and you know you aren't invited."

"It's not my fault Slughorn has poor taste, but I happen to have excellent taste which is why I am spending this evening with you, whether we're caught or not." Draco was so close to her she could feel his breath on her ear as his lips brushed softly against her earlobe. He pulled her behind some of the decor as he wrapped his arms around her possessively. She could feel his hands running over her back and through her hair as his lips crashed into hers, open and demanding. Moments like this made her wish that they could be more open about their relationship, because moments like this made her not want him to let go. Hermione snapped out of her reverie when she heard Harry calling her name, reluctantly pulling away from Draco. _You need to hide_ , she mouthed to Draco. He disappeared into the corridor just in time, but not before winking at her.

* * *

The next day was much less eventful than the night before. Hermione tried to distract herself from the previous night with her schoolwork. She studied in the library from breakfast until dinner, feeling very productive as she made her way to the entrance hall to meet with Charlus. He was ten minutes late, and when she asked him why he responded with simply, "Peeves." Hermione laughed and groaned simultaneously; no further explanation was necessary.

As expected, the halls were quiet, leaving Hermione and Charlus to small talk.

"So what made you miss the train the other night?"

"Didn't Riddle mention it?"

"It must have slipped his mind," Hermione replied.

"Oh, well, Dorea and I got stuck in Switzerland with her family. Faulty portkey; it happens every once in a while, but it was awful timing. We weren't sure how we were going to make it in, and the Ministry had to set up a floo connection. Nightmare."

"Dorea?"

"Oh, right. Forget you're new. Dorea is my girlfriend; we've been going out for ages. She's a Slytherin prefect, which is why I was surprised Riddle didn't mention it."

"Riddle said no other prefects missed the train, though, and that's why we're patrolling together." _But why should we expect honesty from Voldemort?_

"He just doesn't like us patrolling together, says we get distracted." Charlus chuckled. "It's not entirely untrue."

"So who is Dorea patrolling with?"

"She got stuck with Reginald Bones, poor thing," Charlus laughed and then stopped abruptly, looking at Hermione with an awkward look on his face. "Merlin, I'm sorry, I heard you two are going out. He's fine, really, just-"

Hermione laughed and interrupted him. "We're not going out. I went to Slughorn's party with him yesterday. Biggest mistake I've made all week, but he was rather insistent." Hermione was still laughing, and eventually Charlus joined in. It was the first time Hermione had really laughed in ages, and she couldn't help but think of Harry and Ron, and how much she missed them. Losing Harry was one of the most painful moments of Hermione's life, though the war had given her many. Compounding Harry's loss, though, was Ron's anger over her secret relationship with Draco. As much as she tried to explain what had happened that night, he could never forgive Draco's role in it, and thus could never forgive her, making her lose two friends instead of one when Bellatrix's curse hit Harry on the astronomy tower.

Speaking with Charlus was bittersweet as he reminded her of her dear friends, but she managed to have fun with him nonetheless. She learned that he was a fifth-year prefect who desperately wanted to get "one to two O.W.L.s," as he had told her. Like Harry, he was a seeker, and Hermione found herself wondering once more what the family connection was. She wish she had the foresight to pack a book about pureblood bloodlines, but she had to make do with packing what she had in her possession, and pureblood lineages were a very new interest.

* * *

All in all, the evening was a significant improvement compared to the previous one. To cap it off, Hermione slipped into her pajamas before curling up in her favorite brown armchair with her favorite cat.

A couple hours later, well past midnight, Hermione saw the Head Boy come out of his room with the same textbook she was reading for Ancient Runes. Hermione sighed. _This is exactly what I don't need right now._

"What are you doing down here at this hour?" _Why does he have to interrupt? And why is he in full robes in the middle of the night?_

Riddle sat unceremoniously in the opposite chair, opening up his copy of _Advanced Rune Translation_. "I could be asking you the same thing," he replied.

_Don't pick a fight with Riddle, don't pick a fight with Riddle_ , Hermione's rational side tried to warn her, but she was too tired and too irritated. "Why did you tell me that Charlus and I were the only people missing from the train? You can't just assign me patrols."

Riddle looked up at her, his face blank. "I didn't think it mattered."

Hermione folded her arms across her chest, and gave him her best " _I'm waiting"_ look.

"I'm sure Charlus explained to you that him and Dorea can't be trusted to patrol together." Riddle's voice sounded bored. "Since I had no idea who you were at the time, I gave Reginald the option of patrolling with Dorea or Charlus. Unsurprisingly, your boyfriend picked Dorea."

"He is not my boyfriend." _Merlin, what was Reginald telling people?_

"Are we done here? I didn't come down here to argue with you." Hermione didn't respond. Riddle returned to his book, first pulling out a pair of thick, tortoise-shell glasses from his robes and slipping them on before diving into his book. _Voldemort wears reading glasses?_

"You wear reading glasses?" Hermione couldn't help herself from saying aloud.

Riddle didn't look up. "Do you really want to criticize my eyesight, too?"

"I wasn't criticizing," Hermione responded with an apologetic tone. "I was just surprised, that's all." Riddle didn't respond. Hermione returned to her book, but had a hard time concentrating. No matter how much she tried to focus on her schoolwork, she couldn't shake off the fact that she was sitting in a room with Voldemort. Her whole body was tense, and her mind was involuntarily cycling through spells that might be useful if she were attacked. Finally, she decided it was time to go to bed.

"'Night, Riddle," she forced herself to say as she was collecting her book and her cat.

He didn't bother looking up. "Goodnight, Prewett."

* * *

It was a sunny Sunday the morning of the scheduled prefect meeting. Hermione left the Great Hall early to make sure she was there to let in the prefects and introduce herself to everyone. She was sure that many of the students- especially the seventh-years- were resentful about Dippet's choice of Head Girl. Hermione was done with stressing about what other people thought, though, and was determined not to let the lovely morning be ruined by the other prefects or by a certain Head Boy.

Unfortunately, it seemed Riddle had also decided to be early, as he was already sitting down when she entered the common room. "Good morning, Riddle," Hermione greeted him cheerfully.

"You're cheery this morning, Prewett."

"I tend to be cheerier when Head Boys don't startle me in the middle of the night," Hermione couldn't help herself from retorting, but did so in a good-natured manner. Their common room was spacious, but Hermione knew from experience how difficult it would be to fit all the prefects inside; although it wasn't common practice when Hermione was a prefect to hold meetings in the Head common room, Hermione had done so as Head Girl and used an expanding charm to increase the size of the room. She began to perform the same charm wordlessly, and the room quickly doubled in size. Hermione then began conjuring enough chairs to fit everyone.

"What are you doing?" Riddle snapped as he was shoved backward by a rogue chair.

"How do you think we're going to fit over twenty students in here if we don't expand the room?" Hermione replied matter-of-factly without turning around.

"I meant what are you doing flinging me across the room?" She could feel him staring at the back of her neck, waiting for a reply.

"That was just an added bonus." Hermione was saved from hearing Riddle's reply by the arrival of a group of people. That is, she thought she was saved until she turned and saw that the group was all Slytherins, including the girl who sat with Malfoy and Riddle in Potions and always looked like she had an awful day. Today was no exception.

Hermione searched the crowd of green and silver, zooming in on the friendliest looking face, determined to at least introduce herself to someone. "Hi, I'm Hermione Prewett." She extended her hand and the witch gingerly shook it.

"I'm Eileen Prince," she replied in a small voice. Hermione couldn't stop her eyes from widening a bit. She did look a bit like Snape, but the girl in front of her seemed so friendly and vulnerable, nothing like the nasty professor that Snape had turned out to be. Remembering what Harry had seen in Snape's pensieve, though, Hermione couldn't help but wonder if this was what Snape was like- or rather would be like- as a teenager.

"What year are you?" Hermione asked the wide-eyed witch. Or rather wide-eye, as she styled her hair in a deep side part with a curtain of dark hair almost entirely obscuring her left eye.

"I'm a fifth-year," Eileen responded. "I didn't expect to make prefect."

"Oh, don't be so hard on yourself, Eileen," a bored-sounding drawl came from behind her. The speaker had blond wavy hair and almond brown eyes. Although nothing but their hair color looked alike, her voice and demeanor reminded Hermione so strongly of Narcissa that she thought the woman in front of her must be a relation. The blond-haired beauty elegantly walked around Eileen to extend her hand out to Hermione. "I'm Dorea Black. Sixth-year prefect." Hermione was a bit thrown back to find out this was Charlus's girlfriend, and realized that neither Charlus nor Voldemort had mentioned Dorea's last name. But of course she was a Black; she seemed more like one than Sirius would ever be. Her voice and mannerisms practically screamed proud pureblood witch.

"I'm Hermione Prewett, the new Head Girl."

"I know," Dorea responded.

Hermione saw Charlus come up behind Dorea and whisper something in her ear before turning to Hermione. "Nice to see you again, Hermione."

"Likewise, Charlus. I should go introduce myself to the other prefects." Dorea and Charlus, despite the fact that they had apparently been going out for many years, were one of those couples that left Hermione with the distinct feeling that they wanted to be left alone, so she excused herself and walked over to the rest of the prefects, slowly introducing herself to those of her own House. She felt a little relieved to see that Reginald was absent, although she was nearly certain he would have mentioned it had he been a prefect. Instead, Hermione learned that Olive Hornby had a (surprisingly) pleasant twin- Oliver Hornby.

"Oliver and Olive?" Hermione couldn't stop herself from asking.

Oliver laughed good-naturedly. "Yes, I know, not sure what our parents were thinking."

"So you were both prefects?" Hermione knew Olive had been the original choice for Head Girl, so she assumed that Olive had also been a prefect.

Oliver looked a little sad at the question. "Yes, we were prefects together, but Olive has been going through a rough time lately- a lot of personal stuff." _Personal stuff? Is that what we're calling being haunted now?_

"Of course. Well I do hope she's alright," Hermione said, trying to sound genuine but having a hard time feeling pity toward her reluctant Potions partner. Riddle saved her from having to fake any more emotions that morning by stating calmly, but in a magically elevated voice, "If everyone could please take their seats, we will start the meeting." Hermione felt a little annoyed that he was calling the meeting that had been her idea, but obliged, sitting next to him in the front of the room. Soon, everyone else had also taken seats around the room, with their eyes glued on Riddle, silently waiting.

Irritated, Hermione broke the silence, first muttering _Sonorus_ under her breath to amplify her voice. "Thank you for coming, everyone. We're going to go over patrol schedules and expectations for the year." She didn't have to look over to know that Riddle's eyes flashed red at her starting the meeting. She led the discussion on patrol schedules before he wrested control to discuss prefect privileges, how passwords for the bathroom would be distributed and items of that nature. Finally, he went quiet, giving Hermione an expectant look. There was a look in his eye that she didn't like.

Hermione was fairly certain they had discussed everything, so she started to wrap up the meeting before she was interrupted by a Gryffindor girl. "What about the Yule Ball?" Hermione just stared at her.

"Oh, I forgot," Riddle's voice responded smoothly, "that you're new." Hermione tried not to look irritated at the obvious lie. _Is he really so desperate to make me look stupid that he's going to get excited about explaining a ball to me?_ "Allow me to explain. The Yule Ball is an annual tradition for the fifth- to seventh-years. The Head Girl is in charge of putting it on with the female prefects." Now Hermione understood why he was so gleeful.

She didn't bother to hide her irritation when she replied, "The Head _Girl?_ Solely?"

"But of course," Riddle replied. "I'm sure you and the other _girls_ can set a separate meeting to discuss the Ball." All the witches but Dorea looked excited about the task and Hermione felt a surge of appreciation for the Narcissa-look-alike. She set up a meeting for the following Sunday at the same time, already dreading it.


	6. Abraxas's Task

The next week flew by, mainly consisting of Hermione's face buried in books and a series of unpleasant run-ins with her favorite roommate. She spent the next Saturday making her way into being part of a new trio with Lyra and Todd. They sat by the lake and studied for a while, but for once Hermione wasn't mad when her studying faced frequent interruptions with questions from Todd or off-topic observations courtesy of Lyra. On the contrary, they were the two people that were making the 1940s feel more like home for Hermione. Although she had a great time with Charlus patrolling, she never really saw him: they were in different houses, different years, and from what she had seen so far, he spent almost all of his free time with Dorea.

* * *

Soon, it was Sunday morning again, and Hermione prepared by herself for the meeting to plan the Yule Ball with the rest of the prefects who happened to be of her gender. Hermione's desire to be prepared warred with her frustration over the outdated practice, and in the end, she decided to try to delegate responsibility to the prefects who were more excited about it. Hermione couldn't prevent herself from doing a bit of research on it during the week, though, and felt a little frustrated with _Hogwarts, A History_ for neglecting to mention the annual balls and their planners.

Hermione was surprised when the three Slytherin prefects arrived first and together. She had met all but one, and finally introduced herself to the seventh-year, who she learned was Mildred Bulstrode. _This explains a lot_ , Hermione mused. The rest of the Houses filtered in, with everyone on time but the Gryffindor prefects, who also came in a group. Hermione was beginning to see why Slytherins found her House members so irritating. Just after Hermione started the meeting, Riddle strolled in, with a sincere-sounding, "Apologies for interrupting, ladies, I forgot about your meeting," before he stalked off to his room. Hermione was disgusted to see almost all of the other prefects practically swoon at his presence. Sure, he was attractive, but couldn't they see how insincere he was?

Since the Ball changed little year to year, there weren't too many things that needed to be decided. Instead, tasks needed to be assigned. "Why don't we discuss what we need to do before the Ball? I'll make a list, and then we can divide up the tasks evenly."

"We'll need food," piped up a short Hufflepuff girl that looked incredibly familiar.

"And drinks," added one of the late Gryffindors, laughing.

"OK," Hermione acknowledged, jotting things down. "We also need a band, I assume." A few of the other students nodded in response.

"We will need appropriate decoration, of course." Dorea chimed in.

"Yes. And I believe we need to procure professors to supervise," Hermione's statement was followed by a chorus of groans and reluctant nods. "I'm happy to talk to the professors," Hermione assured them, pleased to secure the task that seemed least repugnant. She doubted she would attend the ball, anyway, so there was no use wasting her time making it perfect. "Other than that, we will need people on decorations, music, and food and drinks can go together."

"I think the Slytherins should take charge of decorations," Dorea suggested in a snobbish voice. "We have the most class."

Hermione had to stop herself from rolling her eyes. "You can head decorations, Dorea, since you seem so enthusiastic about it, but I think we should have other Houses involved so we don't end up with a green and silver Ball." After a lot of bickering, a young Professor Sprout- who Hermione learned was the one who brought up food- took on food and drinks with the rest of the Hufflepuffs. The Gryffindor girls took charge of the music selection, and the Slytherins and Ravenclaws teamed up to work on decorations, making the decorations group almost twice the size of the rest, but the Houses clearly were even less unified than they were in 1998, so it's the best Hermione could accomplish. Since Hermione had her own task, she relinquished herself of most of the responsibility of the Ball and promised to meet with them closer to the ball to go over details and check on everyone's progress.

* * *

September quickly slipped into October, but although Hermione had made a few good friends in the past, she couldn't help but miss her friends and family in the future. Partially because of this, and partially because Dumbledore was an excellent professor, Transfiguration quickly became Hermione's favorite class.

Hermione smiled and waved as she saw Lyra sitting in the corner. Lyra had quickly grown on Hermione and become her closest friend in the past. Though her and Luna were never close in her own time, she wondered if she had been missing out. Lyra was incredibly perceptive and had a very calming effect on Hermione, which she usually needed these days. Her close quarters with Riddle hadn't been as awful as she had expected, but they argued over everything and nothing. It was very different than being Head in her own time, when she cohabitated with Ernie Macmillan. Though he could be really irritating, he didn't get under her skin the way that Riddle did. And Hermione could ignore him; Riddle wouldn't allow it. There was something so dominating about his mere presence that it was impossible to pretend that he wasn't there. As if she needed a reminder that she needed to get closer to the Horcrux-hoarding Head Boy.

Soon Hermione was jolted from her thoughts by the start of class. "Today we will be turning teapots"- with a wordless wave of his wand, teapots flew from the front of the class to each student's desk- "to foxes. Because foxes are more complex creatures than those we have worked with previously, you might find this rather difficult."

Five minutes into practicing, the farthest anyone had gotten was Hermione's teapot. Her handle was turned into a snout, and the other end had grown a beautiful, bushy tail, but she had no luck on completing the spell as of yet. As the class drew to a close, Hermione hadn't had much more luck, except that now her teapot could see and was looking at her disapprovingly. Even more annoying, Hermione noticed that Riddle, who sat behind her, was looking rather smug, reading while a well-behaved fox sat contentedly at his feet.

Dumbledore was passing through, giving tips and encouragement to the increasingly dejected Transfiguration students. "Excellent start, Hermione. I think you'll find with a bit of practice you'll have a full-fledged fox."

Dumbledore turned to walk back toward the front of the room without commenting on Riddle's achievement. Something of this sort had happened every class thus far. And though Hermione knew that Dumbledore detested Riddle because Riddle opened the Chamber of Secrets, and Hermione had done no such thing, she couldn't help but compare it to how Snape treated her, and was thinking of all the times Snape had ignored her or ridiculed her when she heard her voice say, "Excuse me, Professor." Dumbledore turned around, still smiling.

"Yes, Ms. Prewett?"

Hermione wavered for a moment. This wasn't like standing up to Professor Umbridge when she denied Voldemort's existence, or to a Death Eater disguised as Professor Moody when he ridiculed Neville. This was Dumbledore, her favorite professor, ignoring the wandwork of a boy who had already used it to perform incredible, but dark, magic. But Hermione couldn't help but comment, anyway. "I think you've forgotten Riddle's fox."

"Ah, yes." Dumbledore's voice had a hint of coldness to it that Hermione had never heard before. Everyone's eyes were now on their exchange, including Riddle's. Hermione could feel his stare burning behind her, but didn't dare turn around. "Excellent work, Mr. Riddle," Dumbledore spoke quietly before heading up to the front of class. "I think that's all for today. Please continue practicing the spell and I will see you all on Thursday."

Hermione quickly packed her bookbag and rushed out of Transfiguration, not waiting for Lyra and not looking behind her. But she wasn't fast enough. Just as she'd gotten past the door, Riddle grabbed Hermione and pulled her into a secluded hallway. Hermione's eyes widened as she felt a chill run down her spine. "What are you-?"

"What was that, Prewett?" Riddle interrupted with a snarl. Hermione could see his eyes glowing red in the dimly lit hallway.

"What do you mean? I was defending you!" Hermione was trying not to antagonize Riddle, but it was difficult to not be angry. "Professor Dumbledore has been practically ignoring you. I just… I don't know. It was obviously a bad idea." Hermione looked up at Riddle angrily. "I'll leave you to fend for yourself in the future."

Riddle didn't look placated. "What are you playing at? I don't believe for one second you are trying to defend me. And for the record, I don't need anyone to _fend_ for me."

Hermione moved forward, refusing to be glued against the wall out of fear any longer. "I just wanted you to know," Hermione said in a livid whisper, "that I when I beat you in grades this year, it won't be because Professor Dumbledore likes me more." And with that, she stormed off, not heading in any particular direction other than away from Riddle and away from their common room. Hermione was frustrated with herself for losing control with Riddle; they had been arguing frequently but this was the first time things had gotten really heated, and the first time he had completely dropped his facade. As the semester wore on, Hermione was wondering more and more if Dumbledore knew what he was doing by sending Hermione back. Riddle and her seemed to have a knack for getting on each other's nerves; she was sure that almost anyone would have an easier time gaining Riddle's trust than her. Why couldn't he have sent Ginny back? Or Luna? They would know what to do.

_"It has to be you."_ Dumbledore's words echoed through Hermione's skull not for the first time. She desperately wished she knew what he had meant. Some days she wished that she had questioned him more, but knew that it would have been fruitless. Dumbledore had been determined not to give her more information. But she needed it. She needed someone to tell her how to proceed. And that's when Hermione decided she needed to go to Dumbledore; she knew there was more in the letter he had written himself than had been let on- or at least, she had to hope there was.

* * *

The exchange stuck with Riddle for the rest of the day. He was incredibly frustrated; not only had Prewett stormed off before he could respond, but he really didn't understand why she was helping him. In class, in prefect meetings, and even in his own bloody common room she was always trying to undermine him, which is why Riddle couldn't understand why she would try to highlight his accomplishments in Transfiguration. _And of course she evaded all of my questions. As always._

Riddle spent the day wrestling with how to proceed, but finally he decided to pursue a plan he had been thinking of for quite a while. In fact, he didn't really know why he hadn't proceeded earlier.

Accordingly, on the way up from dinner, Riddle gestured to Malfoy to follow him, and walked down to a dark corridor in the dungeons. During their walk, Riddle did not bother to look behind him to see if Malfoy followed; his followers knew the price of insolence. "Malfoy, I need to speak to you about something."

"Yes, my Lord?" Riddle couldn't help but feel smug at the the terrified look on Malfoy's face, but he would have preferred if that's how Prewett looked earlier. Her treatment of him after Transfiguration was still making his blood boil. The more he thought of Prewett, the angrier he felt, and the smaller Malfoy seemed to become in front of him.

"I'm going to need you to see to an unpleasant task for me."

Malfoy bowed his head slightly. "I would be happy to oblige."

"I don't trust the new girl, and she doesn't trust me. She seems to fancy you, so I would like you to get close to her. Find out what her secrets are."

"Of course, my Lord." For some reason, Riddle felt a little irritated at the glee in Malfoy's eyes upon hearing his assignment.

"Do what it takes. And don't disappoint me."

* * *

Albus Dumbledore sat in his office, thinking not for the first time of the mysterious time traveler, Hermione Prewett. Her recent behavior in Transfiguration Class was unsurprising, considering the letter he had received from his future self, but he couldn't help but be concerned for her. He knew all too well what it meant to be involved with a dark wizard, and that the pull to the darkness was often stronger than the pull to the light.

He had recognized the type of magic used on the letter almost instantly; it was written in a difficult type of invisible ink that took months to brew, and could only be read by the writer. The art had almost died out because it was seldom useful enough to go through the trouble of brewing the potion to write what usually constituted merely a note to one's self. In this case, of course, it was more essential. The ink used didn't tell him much, but it did make it obvious that Ms. Prewett's time travel was planned for several months.

Dumbledore had tried to reassure Hermione by acting as though the letter had left fairly clear instructions, when in reality all it said was: "This is Hermione, a time traveler with an urgent mission. Make her Head Girl with a pureblood lineage. Whatever you do, do not interfere in her relationship with Tom Riddle." The final line is what disturbed him the most; how could he let another innocent teenager get wrapped up with a dark wizard?

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Come in," Dumbledore responded automatically.

The time traveler in question opened the door. "Do you have a moment, Professor?"

"Of course, Ms. Prewett. Please, sit. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Well, Professor," Hermione hesitated, clearly wrestling with herself about something. "I wanted to ask you about the note I handed to you a month and a half ago."

Dumbledore felt apprehensive, but knew that his expression wouldn't show it. "What about the note, Ms. Prewett?"

"Did it say anything about how to complete…" Hermione hesitated again. "...how to complete my mission?"

"I'm afraid I don't even know what your mission is, Ms. Prewett," Dumbledore answered honestly. _But I do know who it's regarding_ , Dumbledore thought to himself.

"Are you sure, Professor? I don't mean to press, but, it seems increasingly impossible. Any help would be beneficial."

Dumbledore felt a swell of curiosity about what his future self told her, but knew that it would be unwise to know if he had chosen to keep it from himself. "I'm sorry, Ms. Prewett, but I am telling the truth. And I think it would be best if we didn't continue this conversation."

Hermione looked crestfallen, but nodded and rose to leave. "Thank you for seeing me, anyway, Professor. I appreciate it." Her eyes conveyed such a depth of loneliness that Dumbledore found it difficult not to offer her assistance, but held himself back. Seconds later, he heard the door shut, feeling a mixture of relief and sadness at his inability to help Hermione.


	7. Tangerines

Draco Malfoy was staring at Hestia Jones, dressed in perfectly fitting silk pajamas that only highlighted the stupidness of his expression; his face was blank and his mouth agape. "What?" He heard his voice say in a croak. His voice was partially compromised because he had just woken up and had a terrible cold, but he also was struggling to form words from his shock. _Why would Dumbledore agree to meet with me in the midst of this war?_ The only explanation that kept cycling through Draco's head was that Hermione must have died. He kept trying to brush aside the obvious explanation, but was trying and failing to think of an alternative. "Are you sure he wants to meet with me? But not until next week?" He was too concerned to feel annoyed or embarrassed about how small his voice sounded, or about the tears threatening to fall from his beautiful gray eyes.

"Yes, Draco," Hestia responded gently, patting him on the arm gently, but awkwardly. "The Headmaster has agreed to meet with you. You should be happy; you've been asking to meet him him for weeks." That much was true, but Dumbledore's continual refusals had extinguished Draco's hope of a meeting, and he had started to think that the only assurance he would have of Hermione's safety would be had upon seeing her, so that Dumbledore's latest change of course did nothing but cause Draco anxiety. His concern was heightened by the fact that the meeting would not take place for ten days, and Draco knew that the next ten days would feel like a year as he waited to hear the worst.

"Thank you, Hestia," Draco mumbled before returning to his room and crawling back into bed, although he had no hope of sleep. The only comfort he had was a silly idea that he would know if Hermione died; that he would have felt it. And he hadn't.

* * *

Exactly fifty-five years earlier, Hermione was steeling herself to enter her common room. It had been several hours since her confrontation with Riddle, and she had avoided the common room during the day to put off the moment of confronting him once more. As she gave the password to the impatient portrait- which asked her "Are you coming in or should I go back to sleep?"- Hermione hoped that she would be coming into an empty common room, inwardly knowing that she hadn't enough luck for that to happen. Other than moving backward with regards to Riddle today, Hermione couldn't help but feel disappointed about her meeting with Dumbledore. She had been thinking for a while that he might have more information than he originally let on, and that she might have entered into his good graces enough for him to let her in on the plan, but if he did have any additional information, it would seem that he refused to share it with her.

As Hermione stepped into the common room, she didn't find it empty. Riddle had fallen asleep on the couch that was usually unused by either of them. He was curled up in a ball, as his tall frame wouldn't fit on their couch. His dark hair was messy over his pale forehead, the first time Hermione had seen it not perfect. He was still in full robes, and his tie was tight around his neck despite the fact that he was asleep. Crookshanks was curled up against him, purring contentedly and making no move to come to Hermione. Strangely, Hermione felt a surge of affection for him while looking at his sleeping form. She even thought of conjuring a blanket for him, but thought better of it after mulling over how he reacted earlier when she tried to assist him. Instead, she just mouthed, "Goodnight, Riddle," before going into her own room.

* * *

Riddle awoke early the next morning, annoyed to find that he had fallen asleep on the couch, and, to make matters worse, that Hermione's cat had slept next to him leaving him covered in orange cat hair. He had stayed up waiting to apologize to Prewett; he had appearances to keep up, after all. But as the hours wore on, he moved to the couch to rest for a moment as sleep enveloped him. He went up to his room and quickly got ready, fixing his hair and his robes with a few charms, and then headed downstairs to read. He was determined to get this dreaded scene with Prewett over with.

Around eight o'clock, much later than she usually rose, Prewett popped out of her room and glanced at him furtively. "Good morning, Prewett," Riddle used his best silky, persuasive tone.

"Riddle," she responded stiffly, nodding.

Riddle took a long breath in before bringing himself to apologize. He felt his mouth form what he knew to be an attractive smile. "I wanted to apologize for my behavior yesterday, Prewett. I know it was inexcusable, but I hope you can forgive me."

Prewett looked unmoved, which irritated him, but he strained to not show it. "How do you account for it, Riddle?"

"You're right," Riddle responded, knowing that those were the words that would have the most effect on a woman like Prewett. "Professor Dumbledore's behavior does upset me sometimes. I took it out on you, which was wrong of me. I sincerely apologize."

Riddle was annoyed to see that Prewett seemed as though she were about to roll her eyes at his response, but she responded with, "I accept your apology. I'm glad we could clear this up." She moved to go out the portrait hole, but Riddle stopped her by placing a hand on her shoulder. It was the second time that they had touched, and he felt something strange at the contact, the same feeling he had when he grabbed her in the hallway, but then he had assumed it was a product of his anger. Not it felt different, almost inviting. Prewett turned to look at him, but he didn't move his hand. "Did you need something else, Riddle?" Their faces were mere inches from each other, and he had a sudden urge to kiss her that only frustrated him. She smelled of parchment, chocolate, and tangerines. If he just leaned forward a little…

"Riddle?" Her voice was demanding, and it snapped him out of… what, exactly, was that?

"You didn't apologize," Riddle snapped at her. Immediately, he felt frustrated with himself. _This was not how this was supposed to go; I was supposed to be charming and apologetic._ For some reason, it was increasingly difficult to keep up his mask around her. She distracted him- no, irritated him- too much.

"Of course. I'm sorry, Riddle," she said in a sickly sweet voice, her eyes wide with feigned innocence. He knew she was mocking him, and it just infuriated him more. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to breakfast." And with that, she left through the portrait hole, and Riddle let out the breath he didn't know he was holding.

* * *

Hermione could feel the heat of Riddle's frustration coming off him like waves as he cornered her in their common room. In the last month and a half, Hermione had succeeded in breaking down his facade, just not in the way she expected to. Even just now, she had tried to be nicer, and he had clearly seen right through her; in fact, it just seemed to irritate him more. Since befriending him seemed like an even more distant possibility than it had been in the beginning of the year, she would have to play to her strengths, to take a disguised Death Eater's advice. Hermione seemed to be able to rile up the Head Boy; she would just have to drive him so far out of his comfort zone that he slipped up. Despite her previous decision to not anger him _too much_ , she had a mission to complete, and she would not allow fear to deter her. She was a Gryffindor after all, despite her blue and bronze exterior.

She walked quickly to breakfast, no longer irritated at herself for letting Riddle get under her skin, because she was certain she was getting under his, as well. As she sat down across from Lyra, Hermione couldn't help but notice a certain irritating Quidditch captain shoot her a dirty look from farther down the table. Reginald had continued to pursue her after the Slug Club party, finally asking her to Hogsmeade weekend that was coming up in two days' time, and she had taken the opportunity to squarely reject him. He hadn't taken it well.

Lyra's voice roused her from her thoughts. "You look frazzled this morning, Hermione," Lyra observed.

"It's just that I have a lot of schoolwork right now, you know," Hermione explained lamely.

"You don't have to tell me," Lyra responded, clearly seeing right through her. Hermione silently ate her breakfast until she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned around to see a face that she hadn't quite adjusted to yet: Abraxas's. Once she had learned his first name, she forced herself to think of him in that way to distinguish him from _her_ Malfoy.

"Abraxas," she greeted him coldly. After his impertinent behavior at Slughorn's first party, Hermione had purposefully kept him at arm's length, and he hadn't tried to remedy that, so Hermione didn't understand why he had come to have a chat with her now.

"Hermione," his voice was silky, but he had a more calculating look in his eyes than she was accustomed to seeing from the Malfoy line. "You are looking especially lovely this morning. I was wondering if you might accompany me to Hogsmeade this weekend."

Hermione looked past Abraxas to see Riddle looking calm and collected at the Slytherin table, but his eyes were flashing red. "I would love to." For whatever reason, Riddle looked irritated at Abraxas's question, and the new plan was fully in action. It was an added bonus that annoying Riddle gave Hermione such glee. _Because waking the sleeping dragon that was the Dark Lord is an excellent idea._ Still, it felt good to be doing something active.

"Perfect," Abraxas replied, smiling handsomely. "I'll see you in the Entrance Hall at eight?"

"Perfect," Hermione echoed, flashing him a coy smile.

* * *

The next couple days of class passed by quickly. She forced herself to raise her hand even _more_ often than normal, transfiguring her and Riddle's tennis matches to hockey matches. When double Potions arrived on Friday afternoon, Hermione fully understood the feeling that Christmas had come early.

Apparently the curriculum had changed enough that they were making a potion Hermione had made at the start of her sixth year: The Draught of Living Death. And, just as in that class, Slughorn was offering Felix Felicis as the prize. This time, there was no Half-Blood Prince book to thwart her. _And,_ Hermione thought, somewhat ashamed, _this time I'm not above using some of Snape's tips._ Hermione couldn't remember everything Harry had done to change his Draught of Living Death, but she did remember that he crushed his sophorous beans instead of cutting them; at the time, it had irritated her enough that it was now burned into her memory.

As Hermione began to crush her beans, she saw Riddle's mouth twitch, almost imperceptibly. _We'll see how smug you feel in an hour, Riddle._

An hour later, Hermione felt her mouth twitch as well as she looked down at her beautiful, pale potion. She didn't bother suppressing her smile as Slughorn began to tour the room, assessing the potions.

"Oho!" Slughorn exclaimed as he reached her table. "Ms. Prewett, you have inherited your aunt's knack for potions. Excellent work, excellent work," he was muttering to himself. "I don't think- no-" Slughorn continued as she gave the Gryffindor table a sidelong glance. "No, no one has managed quite as perfect a potion. Your reward, Ms. Prewett." Slughorn pulled a small bottle of gold liquid out of his robes; Hermione took it enthusiastically, feeling elated. Riddle was staring at her, furious. She met his gray eyes, still smiling widely. _Your Horcruxes are mine, Riddle._

* * *

The next morning, Hermione woke early to get ready. She decided she might as well try to use this date to her advantage, and see if Abraxas would let anything slip about Riddle, and if nothing else, getting close to him might be her best course of action right now. She still hadn't decided when to use the Felix Felicis, but she was now keeping it on her person at all times in case she needed it; her new strategy of irritating the Head Boy into submission was admittedly dangerous, so she might need to access her artificial luck with little notice.

Hermione had enough experience with her unruly mane of hair to know that straightening it, even magically, was not an option unless she had more patience than she was ever willing to give to her appearance. Instead, she used some spells from _Witch's Glamour: Tips for a Magical Night_ , a "joke" present from Ron their sixth year. She had packed it mostly for sentimental reasons, as it was the last gift he ever gave her before their huge fight; however, it seemed to be coming in handy.

She finished getting ready by throwing on a long wool skirt and a tight-fitting cream sweater. It was luck for her that there had been a lot of inflation in the wizarding world in the intervening fifty-five years because fashions had changed drastically, and she had to completely change her wardrobe. Professor Dumbledore had warned her about the change, insisting she visit Hogsmeade before classes started. At the time, she thought it was a bit silly that her professor was sending her shopping, but she quickly realized that wearing jeans and a jumper would make her stick out a little too much.

She walked to the entrance hall as promised, passing dozens of students chattering excitedly about the first Hogsmeade weekend. Hermione was pleased to see that her outfit seemed approximately appropriate for the occasion. She immediately spotted a certain Slytherin, who was she surprised to see was early for their date. Unfortunately, he wasn't standing alone; he was with Riddle and the rest of the boys that Hermione affectionately thought of as baby Death Eaters.

She took a deep breath and walked confidently toward the green and silver group. Riddle saw her first, catching her eye and smirking. _What was he so smug about this morning?_

"Prewett," he nodded. She couldn't help but feel uncomfortable as he surveyed her, and suddenly had the feeling that maybe she should have worn a different top or done less with her hair. "You look really nice today," he said. His voice was kind but his eyes told a different story.

"Thank you, Riddle. You look exceptional as always," she retorted. Of course, it was true: a month of half of getting to know the younger Voldemort hadn't diminished the effect of his impeccable appearance. Today was no different; his hair was a beautiful dark brown, perfectly parted. His skin was pale and unmarred, and his gray eyes were even more beautiful when they mocked her; it made him seem lively rather than practiced and stoic, which was his general effect.

She felt an arm wrap sling over her shoulders and looked up to see the dark blue eyes of Abraxas Malfoy. _Focus on the eyes_ , she thought to herself, _lest you forget who you're with_. "Abraxas," she greeted him with a smile.

"Hermione," he replied. "Shall we?"

"Of course. Goodbye, Riddle," she flashed him her best attempt at a sincere smile before walking out the large doors of Hogwarts, arm-in-arm with Abraxas.


	8. Hogsmeade

Hermione and Abraxas slipped into an unoccupied carriage, but their solitude was quickly interrupted by the arrival of another couple: Doreus and Charlus.

"Abraxas, mate," Charlus greeted him enthusiastically. "Hermione, good to see you."

"Hello, Charlus, Dorea," Hermione nodded to both of them and surveyed the three of them with a curious look. What was the relationship between these three? Dorea nodded curtly at Hermione before glancing at Abraxas with a conspiratorial smile and an eyebrow raise.

Abraxas greeted the two of them, smiling at Dorea. The two were clearly close, and reminded Hermione with a pang of her and Harry. "How do you all know each other?" Hermione asked to keep the conversation flowing.

Abraxas responded first. "Dorea and I are childhood friends, and I know Charlus through her." Dorea rolled her eyes at that description. Charlus and Abraxas spent the rest of the short carriage ride discussing Quidditch. Hermione didn't participate, and Dorea gave up on the conversation entirely, staring firmly out the window.

As the carriages pulled up to the village of Hogsmeade, Hermione noticed it bore only a superficial resemblance to the one she had known. The buildings were all the same, but the lettering on the shopfronts were much more old-fashioned, making her realize with a pang how modernized Hogsmeade was in her time, despite the fact that it always felt like such an old, classic village.

Charlus and Dorea left the carriage quickly, with Charlus waving behind him before being practically dragged out by his girlfriend. Abraxas stepped out of the carriage ahead of Hermione, extending a hand to help her out. "Ms. Prewett," Hermione rolled her eyes at his teasing use of her supposed surname. "Where to?"

"Well…" Hermione hesitated. "I've never been here before, so I suppose you will have to lead the way." She told her half-lie easily, and received an enthusiastic smile in response that only made Hermione more nervous.

"First, I think, the bookshop." Hermione was surprised by the suggestion, and shot Abraxas a look to that effect. "I'm not blind. You seem to spend all of your time reading."

He held her hand as he led her to a bookshop just a few storefronts down from where they had gotten out of the carriage. Hermione noticed with delight- and a loud stomach growl- there was still Honeydukes! The window display looked as delectable as she remembered. "We definitely need to go there later," Hermione couldn't help but comment.

Abraxas smiled and squeezed her hand. "Didn't expect a sweet tooth from you. I would say 'sweets for the sweet,' but I don't think that applies in this case."

Hermione put on a mock-affronted expression before replying, "Lovely. And yes, I do have a sweet tooth. I suppose it comes from-" She had been about to continue to comment on how having dentist parents makes you appreciate candy, but stopped herself in time. Hermione realized she was too at ease with this slippery Slytherin.

"Comes from?" Abraxas questioned. They were in front of the bookshop now. The store window had peeling black lettering that said simply "Hogsmeade Bookshop."

"Creative title," Hermione commented dryly.

Abraxas rolled his eyes in an exaggerated fashion. "Don't pretend you're not excited to peruse all of these books." Hermione responded by bounding into the shop. Its interior with as uninterested in decor as its exterior; there were several shelves, but at one point, the owner seemed to have given up, stacking books from floor to ceiling. The sheer volume of texts was overwhelming.

Hermione walked the perimeter of the shop to start, ascertaining the organizational structure. The books seemed to be loosely grouped into categories, with approximate alphabetization ("E" came before "X," but not necessarily before "F"). Hermione's breath caught in her throat when she realized that, although completely indistinguishable and marked off in no way, there was a Dark Arts section. A serious Dark Arts section that made _Magick Moste Evile_ look like a book of children's stories. She heard footsteps behind her and quickly ducked into the Herbology section. It was Abraxas.

"Find what you were looking for?"

"Are you serious? We've only been in here, what, twenty minutes?"

Abraxas sighed. "Alright, alright." He turned to go.

"Wait, why don't you… go into the Quidditch shop I saw on the way here? I'll be here a while." Hermione emphasized "a while," but didn't add her real reason for getting rid of him: _I'd like some time alone with the Dark Arts section, please._

Abraxas looked uncomfortable at the suggestion. "Well… if you're sure. I don't mind-"

"No, you go," Hermione insisted, smiling to appease him. "We can have more fun later."

"Well, then. I'll meet you back here in about half an hour or so." Abraxas smirked at her and graciously left the store.

Hermione was increasingly amazed as she examined the texts in the corner of the store: _Ancient Soule Magick, Darkest Arts: 1000-1500,_ and _Tracing the Deathstick: Folklore or Fact?_. It was a long shot, but one of these texts might assist her in finding Riddle's Horcruxes easier. And she would take any increase in odds. She soon became glad she didn't bring all of her galleons with her, or she would be at risk of spending them all. She ended up purchasing seven texts on Horcruxes, not bothering with books about the Deathly Hallows. She knew enough about them, and in fact knew where all of them were in this time period: the cloak would be with Charlus, the wand with Grindewald, and Riddle unwittingly had the stone on his finger.

* * *

Two hours and many bars of chocolate later, Hermione and Abraxas ended up at the Three Broomsticks. Hermione was pleased to see that the place looked the same as ever; one attractive barmaid had merely replaced the other. Hermione watched in amusement as the new- or old?- waitress eyed Abraxas like a piece of meat and smiled widely.

"Abraxas." She stated his name not as an acknowledgement, but an invitation.

A blush crept up Abraxas's sun-kissed skin. _A strange look on a Malfoy_ , Hermione thought, holding back her smile.

"Madam Ward, two butterbeers if you please." Despite his blush, his voice came out silky and controlled. Hermione was mildly annoyed that he hadn't asked her what she wanted to drink, but considering Butterbeer was the standard, she accepted it silently. Somehow, the teasing that she would have given him just moments ago would have been out of place here. From the moment they walked in, Abraxas's demeanor had changed, as though he were steeling himself for a purpose. After Madam Ward gave both of them their butterbeers, Abraxas led her to the table in the farthest corner of the room. She sat down gingerly. _What was this about?_

Abraxas began stroking her arm with his index finger, which made Hermione feel distinctly uncomfortable. Despite his lazy demeanor, there was a determination in the tension of his brow that had Hermione feeling more like she was in a battle than on a date. Abraxas kissed her lightly on the neck and looked up at her. "I want to know everything about you," he whispered as he ran his hands through her hair- or tried. Despite her beauty charms, his fingers were quickly trapped and he resorted instead to returning to holding her hand that was draped on her lap.

"What is there to know?" Hermione's voice came out breathless, and she tried her best to make her face look as blank and clueless as possible. _If you're going to treat me like I'm some dumb little girl, I can play that part._

"I want to hear all about your life before Hogwarts. You're quite the mystery, Hermione." His words set off a small panic in Hermione, and she let out the breath she didn't realize she was holding. How could she not have realized earlier that this was date was planned by Riddle? It was his look in the Great Hall that had thrown her off; Riddle seemed so angry at Abraxas asking her out. He must have known that his anger would spur her to go. _But how?_ She had underestimated him. He was not losing control; he was playing her. And she would have to be more careful.

"Hermione?" Abraxas's voice came just to the left of her and she realized he had closed the small distance between them while she had been thinking.

"You're distracting me, Abraxas," she teased. _You and Riddle,_ she thought grimly. "It's so hard for me to talk about with my parents, but- you know I went to Beauxbatons. It was so lovely there. I miss it sometimes, but the castle is wonderful in its own way."

"I'm glad Hogwarts is starting to feel like home for you." His voice was quiet, and his pace was slow. He was thinking, too. He peppered sweet kisses on her neck and then her cheek. Hermione reminded herself that it was so that he could buy time. "But- how did your family get mixed up with Grindewald? That must have been terrible for you." _And there it was._

"Abraxas," she laced his name with honey, and tried to keep her voice light and teasing. _Keep it light, and stall- how to stall?_ And then Hermione remembered something important: this was not a Death Eater in front of her. He was just a teenage boy. "I don't want to talk about Grindewald right now," Hermione grabbed his platinum blond hair and pulled him closer, engulfing him in a deep kiss. She registered the look of surprise in his midnight blue eyes before she closed her eyes and flicked her tongue against his. He let out a small moan and responded. Before long, his hands found her waist, pulling her close. She held his hair tightly and tried not to think too much about what she was doing. But the kiss was… weird. That was the truly the best word for it. His lips were so familiar, and even the way he held her reminded her of Draco, but there were all of these little things that were off. His kiss had more tongue, he tasted of cherries and spearmint instead of the peppermint she was used to, and… she didn't feel comfortable. She knew she was just buying time until she had to continue on with an interrogation.

The way she saw it, there were three options: give away nothing, give away everything, or find a convincing lie. The first option was unworkable; it was now clear to Hermione that Abraxas had been sent after her as Riddle's lap dog to obtain information. If she refused, she would have to deal with Riddle's questioning, and that would definitely be worse. She didn't know if he knew Legilimency yet, but the odds were stacked against her. He was seventeen, yes, but he was also probably the greatest Legilimens in history. She wouldn't take her chances there. Telling everything would be unwise for obvious reasons.

That left coming up with a convincing lie. It was probably better to lie to Abraxas than to Riddle; Abraxas would have an easier time believing her. If Riddle was excellent at Legilimency, he would view her interaction with Abraxas, but he still wouldn't be able to search her feelings in the same way he would if she told him a fake story in person. And if he were that suspicious, and came after her anyway, she would just be delaying with her current plan, which wouldn't be a bad thing. That left the question of what story to feed Abraxas.

And then it hit her like an answer to a riddle (or a Riddle, she supposed). What was the worst thing in the world to a society of pureblood supremacists? A Muggle-born witch. And what could be better than lying with the truth? It could even fend off half-baked Legilimency if it came to that. So, when Abraxas let her up for air and resumed his questioning (which was almost immediately), she responded with: "To be honest, Abraxas, my family was targeted because I'm a Muggle-born."

Abraxas's reaction was swift but violent: he looked as if he were about to be ill, but the lapse was momentary.

"But your last name is Prewett."

Hermione shrugged. "I'm not really a Prewett." She stroked his arm, enjoying his distaste. _How does it feel, Abraxas, to have a Mudblood touch you?,_ she thought viciously. "Of course, this will be our little secret? I would be in a lot of danger if anyone found out." She fluttered her eyelashes up at him.

"Of course, darling." He laid off his questions for the rest of the day, seemingly as satisfied with her admission as he was disturbed. The day ended with their carriage ride back to the castle, where she learned he apparently wasn't done with her.

"Slughorn's party Friday?" Hermione had to use a considerable amount of effort to hide her grimace; there was no chance at making it into a smile.

"Friday sounds wonderful."

* * *

After she got back from Hogsmeade, Hermione made a beeline for her room. Riddle was there, perched on the armchair like a vulture waiting for her. But she didn't have the energy.

Hermione yawned hugely and said "goodnight, Riddle," in her best tired voice, disappearing behind her room without gauging his reaction. Hermione immediately collapsed into a heap on the other side of the door.

Sitting there in the the Three Broomsticks, it had been so easy to let her survival instincts take over. But now she couldn't help but feel a bit defeated. Her bottom lip was slightly swollen and her mouth felt like fire from the flavor of spearmint. The flash of disgust in Abraxas's eyes- his seconds of honesty- killed her. But why should it? They were both just playing along, pawns in Riddle's game. And if she had to admit to herself, that was the part that hurt the worst. She thought that she could really get under Voldemort's skin, that she was having some impact. But somehow he knew exactly how she would react to his murderous expression in the Great Hall. How? Had he been reading her mind or just her emotions? Hermione had never felt so on display. Planning for round two would have to wait; for now, she let the hot tears cascade. Her first cry in ages, she noted, that wasn't about Draco.


	9. In The Hospital Wing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, thank you to all of you who have read, commented, or given kudos. I greatly appreciate the support. :)  
> I wanted to briefly address warnings for this fic. I added a minor character death warning that will apply much later, but figured I should probably give you the heads up now rather than later. There will also be some violence, but nothing too graphic (I think, but let me know if you feel differently). That starts this chapter.  
> I also realized that the way I deal with time might be confusing; I am essentially keeping the time in days/months, etc. the same in the future and the past, and it will be explained in the fic why time has seemingly not changed in the future despite Hermione's presence in the past.

Dorea Black was hunched over in her four poster. She only hunched for one reason: to paint her toenails her favorite deep red. She had tried using a Levitation Charm once but it didn't end well. She was on the second coat of her big toe when she heard a voice like nails on chalkboard pronouncing her name by dragging out the "door," a habit she detested. The suddenness of the high-pitched call resulted in a drop of red on her cream, twelve hundred thread count sheets. Dorea huffed a "Scourgify" before responding to her insufferable roommate with an equally insufferable name: Rose Rosier. She cast a quick drying charm on her toes, annoyed that she would probably have to repaint them now, before walking halfway down the spiral staircase. (Shouting was undignified; Rose should have known better).

"Rose," Dorea responded. "What is so important that you feel the need to yell up at me?"

Rose giggled in response. "So stern, Dorea. Abraxas-" she interrupted herself with more laughter- "asked me to ask you to come to his dorm. He needs to see you, apparently."

Dorea rolled her eyes at her roommate's performance, responding with a quick "thank you, Rose," as she crossed the common room to ascend the stairs to the boy's dormitory.

Luckily, Abraxas's room was empty save himself. "What did you have to tell your roommates to get them to leave?" Dorea asked, shutting the door behind her. " _Wingardium Leviosa,"_ she said quietly to levitate a few of Avery's clothes to stuff into the cracks of the door for more privacy.

"No love lost for Avery," Abraxas coughed out, laughing. "I told them I needed some private time with you, of course, emphasizing the word 'private.'"

Dorea shook her head disapprovingly, but couldn't hide a small smile. "And I suppose you told Rose something similar?"

Abraxas nodded in response.

Dorea opened Abraxas's trunk, finding quickly the hidden lock that exposed a secret compartment Abraxas had cleverly hid with an Extension Charm he cast over the holidays almost two years ago. It baffled Dorea how much the rest of Abraxas's friends- if you could call them that- were willing to underestimate him. "We are surrounded by toads who will believe anything," she muttered as she took out the dittany to start.

"Merlin, Dorea. You know how to kick a man when he's down." Dorea would have snapped back at him, but his voice was strained. His ribs were broken. Again.

"So I suppose you won't tell me why Riddle decided to use you for Unforgivables practice?" Dorea asked as she undid the buttons on Abraxas's shirt and pants, trying to take off his clothes gently, but not missing Abraxas's wince. "Or did you just miss me?"

Abraxas chuckled at that, rolling over on his left side. "It's my left rib, I think." Dorea felt the bones and performed quick diagnostic spell she had learned for this very purpose.

"Broken. I'll have to snap them back together and give you pain reliever with your Dreamless Sleep." She didn't comment that his injuries seemed worse than normal, sure that Abraxas had already ascertained that. Dorea didn't bother with a diagnostic spell on his elbow; the bones were jutting out of the skin, puncturing and resulting in free-flowing blood.

"You didn't think to mention your elbow first?" Dorea couldn't help but comment. Abraxas didn't answer her; he was busy grimacing as she set the bone and covered the wound in dittany- after thoroughly cleaning it, of course. She worked silently after that, not missing the fact that Abraxas seemed like he were struggling with consciousness by the time she tended to the latter half of his injuries. She brushed his hair out of his eyes, trying not to cry; that could wait until later. She never wanted Abraxas to know how much these "visits" affected her, for fear that he would stop calling for her out of guilt. "Did I miss anything?"

"You, Dorea?" He murmured, eyes still closed. "You're meticulous." Dorea didn't respond, slowly putting his pajamas on so that he could go straight to sleep. She quietly fed him his potions and started to tiptoe out of the room when Abraxas coughed out her name.

"Er- Dorea."

"Yes, Abraxas? Did you need anything else? I didn't mean to rush off, I just thought-"

Abraxas chuckled and opened his eyes partway. "No need to apologize. I just wanted to tell you, anyway"- his face darkened a bit- "stay away from Hermione Prewett, alright?"

Dorea knew better than to ask more questions. "Alright, Abraxas," she nodded and closed the door quietly behind her, tiptoeing back to her dormitory.

* * *

"Oi, Hermione, are you okay there?" Todd's voice came out like a squeak to her left, making her jump slightly and cut herself even worse than she already had. It was Tuesday, and Hermione was in Herbology, in body if not in spirit. Her thoughts had been scattered after her Saturday showdown with Abraxas. Although Abraxas was the one she lied to, she was extremely jittery around Riddle. She had decided to put off her plans of irritating him, and instead avoid him until she could get more information on Friday from Abraxas regarding what else Riddle wanted to know. To that effect, she had spent all day Sunday in her bedroom, studying and biting her fingernails. She had also decided to scale back her attempts to antagonize him in the classroom, which was probably for the best since she didn't seem to be able to pay attention, anyway. Just now, she had cut herself with a knife while trimming the leaves of her Screechsnap. "Godric," she cursed under her breath.

"Hermione?" Todd repeated, looking increasingly concerned.

"I'm fine," she managed to mutter back. She then proceeded to continue potting her plant. Almost as soon as her cut finger sunk into the soil, the room begun to blur. She heard screams of her name as she fainted backward, taking her plant with her.

* * *

_Did Hermione hit her head on her date with Malfoy? Any sentient person- or at least any sentient Hermione- would know that the soil of a Screechsnap is poisonous when allowed to penetrate skin._ Before he knew it, Riddle was on his feet and picking up Hermione roughly. Chaos had erupted around the room when Hermione fell, but no one moved to help her. Todd seemed to snap out of it as he protested weakly. "I can take Hermione to the hospital wing-"

"Don't be ridiculous," Riddle was dimly aware of how snappish his voice sounded. "I am the Head Boy. I will take her." No one argued as he carried her limp body out of the greenhouses and to the hospital wing, starting off in a brisk walk and ending in a run.

"Madam Poole," he shouted as he rushed into the hospital wing.

"Keep your voice-" Madam Poole started to scold him, and then she saw Hermione. "Put her on the bed," she ordered. Riddle quickly complied. "What happened here?"

"Cut herself. Herbology. Screechsnap. Touched the soil," Riddle was out of breath from running, causing his words to tumble out uncharacteristically.

Madam Poole immediately rushed to her cabinet, applying creams to the wound. As she worked, she muttered under her breath about how many times she had lectured Professor Tonnell about the dangers of Screechsnap. "But does he listen? No," she continued. She seemed to notice Riddle still standing there. "You can run along to class, dear. Ms. Prewett won't be awake for a while."

"Professor Tonnell excused me for the rest of class," Riddle lied easily. "And I have a free period afterward. I would like to stay if permissible."

"Nothing more I can do for now, but you're welcome to sit with her." Madam Poole shuffled back into her office, leaving Riddle and Hermione alone.

Riddle didn't know what to think of Hermione anymore. He didn't even really know what to call her; she was always "Prewett" to him, but it wasn't even her name. He sat stiffly in the chair next to her hospital bed as he studied her. _Why bother sitting next to an unconscious person?,_ he thought to himself. _Why sit this close to a Mudblood at all?_ Regardless, he didn't leave, instead placing his hand awkwardly on hers.

* * *

A couple hours later, and no movement from Hermione. Madam Poole insisted that it was normal, and it would be at least a few more hours before Hermione might wake. Riddle trudged off to Arithmancy, taking his normal seat next to Malfoy.

"Afternoon, Riddle." Malfoy greeted him in a nervous tone. Riddle merely nodded in response while he took out his parchment and quill. "How's the M-" Riddle wordlessly silenced Malfoy, not bothering to turn to face him.

"What did I say regarding speaking about what you learned from your assignment?" Riddle asked conversationally as he pulled out his book. Riddle knew full well that Malfoy was unable to respond, but didn't care much. "I thought we already discussed consequences- when was it?- Sunday. But I'm not a cruel tutor; I'm happy to give more lessons." With that, Riddle finally turned toward Malfoy, who was clutching his desk so hard his knuckles were white. Riddle lifted the Silencing Charm with a small flick of his yew wand. "Well?"

"I'm sorry. I just thought- since we were the only ones in here- it won't happen again."

Riddle didn't break eye contact with Malfoy as other students started filtering in. "I think you've done all you can here, Malfoy. I'll take over."

"But, my Lord, I'm happy to serve you in any way I can-"

"You're relieved. I will make your excuses for Friday. Just stay in your dorm." Malfoy nodded meekly.

* * *

After his last class of the day, Defense Against The Dark Arts, Riddle headed back to the hospital wing, not able to shake an unfamiliar feeling that made his chest feel tight and left his judgment somewhat clouded.

When he arrived, he was irritated to hear Lyra and Todd's voices coming from inside the curtain. Todd was blaming himself for not preventing Hermione from injuring herself. _He speaks as if he knew enough to ascertain that Hermione was in danger,_ Riddle thought to himself, thoroughly annoyed with the incompetent seventh-year and his lack of action earlier.

Riddle sighed and pushed through the curtain; he wasn't going to let a strange girl and a pathetic boy deter him from visiting Hermione, even if he wasn't quite sure why he was here. "Lyra. Todd." Riddle greeted each of them with a nod.

"R-Riddle," Todd stuttered, clearly surprised at his presence.

"She hasn't woken up yet." Lyra reported matter-of-factly. "She asked for someone named 'Harry' a few times; do you know who that is?"

"No."

"Us either," Lyra shrugged. Silence descended for a long minute before Lyra's dreamy voice broke it. "Todd and I have Astronomy essays to work on, so we should probably go to the Astronomy Tower for stargazing."

"Those aren't due until Friday," Todd replied, confused.

"We're going to leave Riddle alone with Hermione, Todd."

Riddle protested. "There's no need for that."

"We're leaving, Riddle," Lyra insisted, grabbing Todd's hand and dragging him to standing position. "Give our best to Hermione." With that, they left. Riddle closed the curtain behind them and tentatively took the seat next to Hermione's bed again, rubbing his thumb idly on her limp hand.

* * *

Hermione woke up disoriented. Her vision was blurry and her head was killing her. Moreover, she could feel her rapid heartbeat all over her body. _What happened?_ She made out a sea of white, including white curtains- she was in the hospital wing! She sat up gingerly, smiling as she saw a slumped over body in the chair next to her, with messy dark hair lying atop her left hand, seemingly in sleep. She felt a warm feeling in her chest and smiled a little wider. Unthinkingly, she ran her fingers through his hair. Some time later, the person below her moved, first shifting sleepily so that he was further onto her lap, and then slowly rose his head until his shining gray eyes met hers. The back of Hermione's mind registered that this was Riddle, but there was no surprise in that realization. She had recognized him in her drugged state.

"Riddle," she whispered slowly, dimly aware that she still had a stupidly huge smile on her face.

Riddle put his finger to his lips before sitting next to her on the bed to whisper in her ear. "I Disillusioned myself earlier. Madam Poole doesn't know I'm here." Hermione nodded, wondering why he was there, but not having enough energy to form the words to ask. His long fingers slowly reached out for her hair before stroking it sleepily as she had done to his moments before. Somehow, he knew how to do so softly enough to not entangle himself in her hair. "I'm glad you're awake," he whispered.

Whether it was his fingers in her hair or the vulnerable tremor in his whisper, Hermione found her arms snaking around his back, pulling him into a tight hug. "Thanks for coming," she mumbled sleepily. "I have to go back to sleep now. Stay?" She felt him nod against her and let sleep engulf her.


	10. Mudblood

"Mr. Riddle! _Mr. Riddle!"_ Riddle awoke to the increasingly furious Madam Poole, registering the high pitch of her voice before realizing that his hands were in a bushy mane of hair and he was lying sideways on Hermione's hospital wing bed. Hermione's eyes went from peacefully closed to wide open, and then to even wider open. Riddle finally disentangled himself from the Head Girl and stood facing Madam Poole.

"Madam Poole," her name came out smoothly enough, but the excuse was lacking. He reached to the right and intertwined his hand in Hermione's. "My deepest apologies. I confess that I snuck in last night. I was just so concerned about Hermione; I had to see her, and then I must have fallen asleep," he finished weakly.

"Well," Madam Poole was looking between the two of them suspiciously. "I do remember how distressed you were yesterday about Ms. Prewett's condition. I will look the other way, but I never want to see this behavior again," she said, her voice stern but wavering.

"Thank you, Madam Poole. I greatly appreciate your understanding." Riddle squeezed Hermione's hand and looked at her adoringly for effect. She started back disbelievingly. Madam Poole left them.

"Riddle. Why were you in my bed?" Hermione spoke slowly, but her voice had an edge of hysteria and… fear.

"You have no memory of our conversation last night?" _Conversation might be stretching it, admittedly._

"The last thing I remember is Herbology yesterday," Hermione confessed. She looked increasingly distressed. "What did I say?" The question struck Riddle as odd, but he carefully controlled his facial expression.

"Is there something you were worried about saying?"

Hermione glared at him, which only amused him more. "I think I'm supposed to be recovering, so if you could leave me the hell alone, that would be great."

"We are fiery this morning, Hermione. I thought we were friends." Riddle put on a mock-innocent expression that he knew would infuriate her. He was right. "Did I do something to upset you?"

"I don't know, Riddle," Hermione responded through gritted teeth. "Think: Is there anything you have done to me recently that I would find upsetting?" _Done to her?_

"Are you talking about our conversation after Transfiguration?"

Hermione snorted. "No, Riddle, I am not talking about you assaulting me after I defended you in Transfiguration, though that's just another example." _The only other thing I've done is send Abraxas to get information out of her, but she can't know about that. Otherwise, why would she tell him anything?_

"I'm not sure I know what you're referring to, then. Care to enlighten me?"

"No, I don't think so," Hermione responded, crossing her arms in front of her chest. "Care to leave?"

"As you wish, Hermione. I'll be back with your notes later."

Hermione huffed at that. "There is no need- I'll see you in class."

"Dear Hermione, we both know the effects of Screechsnap on an open wound. I'll give your best to our professors." With that, Riddle left without waiting for Hermione's reply. Unlike their other arguments, this one did not leave Riddle feeling frustrated. Indeed, he felt invigorated.

* * *

Hermione had spent the better part of the morning anxiety-ridden about her earlier conversation with Riddle. She immediately went over all of her potions with Madam Pomfrey and their side effects; apparently the one used as an antidote to Screechsnap could cause lower inhibitions and drowsiness. _And what would I do if I saw Voldemort with lower inhibitions? Probably yell at him! What if I gave something about the future away? And what if I used his name?_ What Hermione couldn't work out if how he ended up in her bed if they had gotten into an argument. _Maybe to scare me? Send a message?_ That didn't make much sense, either. If anything, he had seemed genuinely happy to see her. And to make things even stranger, Madam Poole seemed to think Riddle had been concerned about her yesterday. _What if he faked concern to spend alone time with me, knowing the effects of the antidote?_ Her thoughts continued this way for several hours, assembling and dismissing various explanations for the odd state of affairs that had woken her up early that morning.

"Hermione," Lyra's serene voice interrupted her thoughts. The dark-haired witch deftly carried a stack of nearly a dozen books, which she set gracefully on Hermione's bedside table. "I thought you might be getting bored in here."

Hermione smiled, glad to see her friend. "Thanks, Lyra."

Lyra stared out the window in response. Hermione enjoyed the silence while she cracked the spine on one of the texts Lyra had brought and began to read. "Professor Slughorn was asking about you today," Lyra said after a while. "He wanted to know if you were going to his party with slugs on Friday."

"It's not a party with slugs, Lyra," Hermione corrected, amused. "It's just a normal party, really." Lyra looked unconvinced. "Anyway, I suppose I'll have to. I'm determined to be out of here by then and Abraxas already asked me.

"Why are you dating Abraxas when you want to date Riddle?" Lyra asked in the same tone she used to ask homework questions.

"I don't want to date Riddle," Hermione's voice was a tad sharper than she wanted it to be. "What gave you that impression?"

"You did," Lyra responded bluntly.

"Care to elaborate?" Hermione asked, feeling a bit frustrated with Lyra's ability to be straightforward and evasive at the same time.

Lyra shrugged, locking eyes with Hermione. "You're always staring at him. Your expression is a bit like the thestrals when they smell blood."

_How romantic._ Hermione cocked an eyebrow at that, but it made her think. Did she really look at Riddle with the lust that Lyra was describing? Or was Lyra misinterpreting Hermione's anger? She did think Riddle was attractive, of course. Anyone would with that perfect dark hair, forming circles on his pale forehead with its subtle curl. And his thin but toned arms, with dark blue veins that surface when he's upset. The way his gray eyes crackle when he looks at her sometimes...

Lyra's voice snapped Hermione out of her thoughts. "Just like that expression," Lyra commented with a knowing smile. _This is not good..._

* * *

It was mid-afternoon and after several arguments with Madam Poole, the mediwitch agreed to let her leave the hospital wing early the next morning if her recovery continued as planned, but she couldn't secure an earlier release.

Hermione looked up as someone suddenly yanked her curtains apart. She was surprised to see that it was Riddle, who had apparently discarded his usual grace. The afternoon sun poured through the window behind her, casting harsh shadows on Riddle's face that only highlighted his high cheekbones and the easy curl of his dark hair. _Merlin, Hermione, this is Voldemort!_ Clearly a mixture of exhaustion and the act of finding Riddle in bed next to her this morning had altered her perception of him. And there was also the pesky fact that Hermione had been attracted to Riddle the entire time she had known him.

"Riddle," Hermione greeted him, careful not to betray any emotions. She felt rash and idiotic for yelling at the future Dark Lord to leave this morning, but the conversation had been veering into dangerous territory. She would have to be more careful now, which should be easier as she was no longer in a state of shock.

"Hermione," Riddle responded, dragging out each syllable as though she needed the emphasis to recognize his steadfast use of her given name.

"Please, sit," Hermione gestured to the chair next to her bed, "maybe in the chair instead of on my bed this time," she couldn't help but add.

Riddle smirked at that, gracefully slipping into the designated seat. "I brought you notes," he offered, but made no movement toward his bookbag.

"May I have them?" Hermione asked, determined not to acknowledge his weird behavior.

"Certainly," he replied, handing over copies of his copious notes, written in tidy cursive. Hermione started to look them over. "Don't I get a thank you?"

Hermione shot him a wary look. "Thank you." She took a sip of the tea that Madam Poole had left by her bedside table. "Why were you in my bed last night, Riddle?"

She received a coy smirk in response. "You asked me to sleep next to you," Riddle responded matter-of-factly. Hermione could feel her face grow hot quickly, and Riddle's smile widened with every degree.

"No, I didn't," Hermione's voice came out a bit flustered. She was somewhat less convinced of the truth of her statement after her conversation with Lyra earlier. "I wouldn't," she muttered, more to herself than Riddle, who was still smiling insufferably. She looked up at him, emboldened by his wanton display of amusement. "Did you want to?"

"Yes." Soon those gray eyes were searching her face again, and Hermione knew they likely found desire buried underneath uncertainty and anxiety. When did this happen? How did she not realize she had a huge crush on the future Dark Lord? Why was she not more disturbed by it? Riddle wordlessly laced his fingers through her own, holding her hand for a while silently before leaving in a swirl of robes.

* * *

Hermione steadfastly avoided Riddle for the rest of the week. She clearly had feelings for him, but was hoping those would dissipate with distance. It was one thing to fake a relationship with his lackey to get information from him, but she didn't think she could fake one with Riddle. As much as she didn't want to admit it to herself, she knew it would be too real.

It was now Friday night and she was trying to decide what to wear to Slughorn's party. It seemed odd that Riddle sent Abraxas after Hermione when it was looking increasingly likely that Riddle was interested himself, but that still seemed the most likely explanation for the blond's behavior.

She contemplated the odd situation she was in- sandwiched between her late boyfriend's grandfather and future murderer- while she changed into a fetching dark purple dress. It had a sweetheart neckline and hugged her waist before flaring out into a long skirt. It was her favorite dress, and she tried unsuccessfully not to think about what spurred her to wear it tonight.

Once she was dressed, she went out to the common room to wait for Abraxas, not wanting to inspire Riddle's ire once more. It seemed that Riddle had already gone out because even as the hour that Abraxas was supposed to meet her came and passed, the common room was empty of both Slytherins. She waited a full forty minutes past the time Abraxas was supposed to be picking her up before leaving, hearing the click-clack of her heels as she rushed off to the party.

Thoroughly irritated, Hermione stormed into Slughorn's magically expanded office, beelining for the firewhisky and taking two shots almost back to back. She never drank much before she was flung into the past, but something about being dropped into a completely different world made her want to keep pouring, so she did. Hermione quickly realized this was already becoming a repeat of the last Slug Club she attended, only she doubted Abraxas would be propositioning her. "Malfoy stood you up?" Hermione jumped involuntarily and spun around to find herself mere inches away from the increasingly mysterious Head Boy.

"You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?" Of course Riddle would be behind it. Abraxas was, after all, acting on Riddle's orders the entire time.

Riddle's face remained entirely expressionless. "Why would I know anything about that? Are you suggesting that I keep tabs on everyone in this school? That I know where those of particular interest to me are all the time?" The last three words came out as a whisper, straddling the line between a promise and a threat that seemed to be home for Riddle.

Hermione voiced her thoughts, tired of a game that she didn't know the rules to. "Are you flirting with me or fucking with me, Riddle?"

"I'm an excellent multitasker," Riddle responded, his expression still slightly bored. He was so close that she could smell his cologne; it smelled like fir trees and vanilla, reminding her strangely of Christmas. "Now if you'll excuse me, Professor Slughorn is waving me over. I don't think it should be difficult for me to find you later." But Hermione wasn't one to wait. She followed Riddle over, too incensed (and frankly a bit too tipsy) to care that he had already slipped into conversation with Professor Slughorn.

"Excuse me for interrupting, but I need to speak with Tom about urgent Head business." Her voice was higher pitched than she would have liked, and "urgent Head business" sounded completely made up, but she didn't care much at the moment. She also realized a moment too late that she had used Tom's- Riddle's- first name.

Slughorn looked exceedingly amused at the interruption. "Of course, don't let me keep you," he said with a chuckle and walked off toward the bar.

Tom also looked amused. "And what is it that you would like to talk to _Tom_ about?" Tom- Riddle! Bloody hell, Voldemort!- let her drag him into the hallway.

Hermione walked and walked, ending up in a deserted corridor, now unsure of what to do with him. Tom smirked and tried to lean forward for a kiss, but she dodged it. He groaned in response.

"What I don't understand is why you are fighting this," Tom's words came out like a snarl. He pushed himself up against the dank dungeon wall that she was leaning against. "You are clearly attracted to me, and most girls in this school would kill to date me."

"Date you?" Hermione repeated aloud. The dark corridor was slightly out of focus.

Tom ignored her, continuing. "Tell me why."

"Dumbledore told me," she blurted out. _It was not a good idea to have this conversation drunk_ , she thought desperately. "I know you opened the Chamber of Secrets. I know you killed that girl. Myrtle." Whatever Tom was expecting, that was clearly not it. His eyes narrowed and flashed red before he broke out in a strange smile. He didn't respond, merely shrugging.

"Did you kill her?" Hermione asked, not sure why. She already knew the answer, after all. Tom's answer was entirely unexpected.

"Does it matter?" Riddle finally responded. Hermione let out a small gasp. _Oh Godric, what was she doing here with an unapologetic murderer?_ "Hermione, you clearly already think I murdered someone and yet you dragged me out here alone. You either trust me or you have a death wish." Merlin, he was right. Why would she drag Voldemort, someone she knew to be a murderer and complete psychopath, into a deserted corridor?

"Well, that's also how I know your feelings on… Mudbloods." Hermione forced herself to spit out the word, to confront Riddle with all of his own hatred right out on the table. She lurched forward as she said the last two syllables like a jaguar jumping for its prey. She didn't even know why she was bothering to have this conversation. She had already admitted she thought him a murderer, and he officially thought she was insane. But there was this small, hopeful part of her- the same part that made her heart beat faster every time she met his piercing gray eyes- that wanted him to reassure her somehow.

"You know, Hermione, for someone so intelligent you can be really thick sometimes."

"Excuse me?" Hermione felt so furious a spark released from the wand she idly held in her right hand.

"I don't care about your blood. I care about you." Those last four words were about the last she would expect to hear from Tom. And to top it off, he sounded so honest, and his gray eyes shone so fiercely she felt they might burn her. He looked a bit unhinged, almost dangerous, but it just made her want to-

As though reading her thoughts, he cut them off with the simple act of raising his long finger to her cheek, tracing her cheekbones, then her jaw, before making her neck tingle with his touch. Tom moved to push her errant locks behind her right ear slowly and sensually, as though he were doing something much more untoward. Without warning, he leaned forward and placed a hot kiss on her neck, his tongue tickling her and his teeth grazing her ever-so-slightly. "Something to think about," he whispered in her ear. As he spoke, his breath tickled the inside of her ear while his lips brushed against her earlobes. Then, Tom backed away abruptly, making her want to grab him and snog him senseless. But he was already gone, robes swishing as he disappeared around the bend of the hallway.


	11. Saturdays

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your lovely comments last week. Apologies for the slight delay in posting. Last week was a little crazy and despite having the main contours of this planned out, I had some serious writer's block on this story.

Draco's knuckles were white as he crumpled the _Daily Prophet_ in his shaking fist. Despite the fact that the black-and-white paper was now out of sight, the moving image under his fist was imprinted on his brain, along with the headline that read simply: "DUMBLEDORE IS DEAD." Hestia's loud sobbing punctuated the guilt he felt at his lack of feeling upon the news. Mostly, he felt numb. The guilt came from the knowledge that he was much more concerned about Hermione's whereabouts than Dumbledore's recent death.

He didn't hear Narcissa come in, but noticed her hands running through his hair. "It's going to be fine, Draco," she was repeating. He didn't really understand why she was so concerned until he looked up and saw his reflection in the mirror. Tears ran down his cheeks, silently streaming. His grip on the paper hadn't let up, despite the fact that he had been sitting in the same position for quite a while.

"Thank you, Mother, I'm fine." She didn't respond, but cupped his cheek with her hand and looked into his eyes with a disbelieving look that made him squirm. Suddenly, he found himself expressing all of his feelings to her: sadness over Dumbledore, despair at the future of the wizarding world, and an overwhelming concern for Hermione.

"I'm going to see if Severus knows anything, alright, darling?" Narcissa's voice was soft but clear, its authoritative tone giving Draco confidence.

"Are you in contact with Snape?"

"Professor Snape," she corrected sternly. Draco almost laughed. Hermione and his mother were probably the only people who would correct him at a time like this. Although not alike in almost any other way, they both had a penchant for following rules, regardless of the circumstances.

"Are you in contact with Professor Snape, then?" He felt a swell of hope in his chest. Snape would know what to do; despite his refusal to accept Snape's help in his sixth year, he had a lot of respect for the wizard. At the time, he had been confused about his own allegiance and believed that Snape was completely committed to the Dark Lord. After changing sides and finding that Snape had always been working for the Order, though, their fractured relationship had been largely repaired.

"Well, Draco, I've been meaning to tell you this, but you've been so concerned about Hermione, I didn't want to add anything to your plate."

"Mother, what are you saying?" Draco felt his body tense in anticipation, because somehow he already knew exactly what Narcissa was going to tell him.

"Your father was very dear to me," she started, not fully making eye contact with her only son. Draco groaned.

"Mother, I don't need to hear any more. How long has it been?"

"Well…"

"I don't care," Draco responded with a sigh. He could tell Narcissa wanted to talk about it, but that could wait until another time. Right now he needed to be planning something productive. He had spent the last week a nervous wreck over the increasingly likely possibility that his girlfriend was dead, and just when he was about to find out either way, the peace that came with knowledge was quickly ripped away from him, along with the best hope of winning against the Dark Lord. Despite everything, though, Draco couldn't regret his decision to deflect from the Death Eaters. In some ways, it was one of the few decisions in his life that he could feel proud of. "You're dating Snape, and you have a way to contact him," Draco summarized. "Is that correct?"

"Well, yes it is, Draco, but I won't tolerate you speaking to me in that manner," Narcissa responded, but with none of the harshness that would have normally accompanied her statement. In fact, all he could see in her dark eyes was relief. Clearly, she had been extremely concerned about him.

"I'm sorry, Mother," Draco couldn't bring himself to care about how whiny his voice sounded. "How soon can you contact him?"

Narcissa took a deep breath before responding. "Right now."

Draco was slowly starting to wake up from the catatonic state Narcissa had found him in and found himself connecting the dots, not liking what they spelled out. "You've been in contact with him this entire time and you haven't asked him about Hermione?" He spoke in a slow, deliberate tone, purposefully trying to keep his anger subdued but knowing that his mother would read his buried emotions easily.

"I have," Narcissa responded icily. "I resent you suggesting that I would not check in with him about Ms. Granger."

Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "What did he say about her?"

"The same as Hestia."

Draco shook his head, rubbing his temple with his right hand. "Then what would he know, if you've been asking him?"

"Dumbledore must have had a contingency plan upon his death."

Draco nodded, understanding. "You don't think he would let all of his knowledge die with him?"

"Exactly. Now are you done moping?" Draco nodded and followed Narcissa as she rose and started making her way to her own chambers.

She opened her chest of mahogany drawers and pulled out what appeared to be a broken piece of glass. "Severus," she stated simply, staring intently at the shard of glass.

His ex-Potions professor appeared, his image filling the object Narcissa held in her hand. Severus gave Narcissa an appreciative look, but quickly noticed Draco behind her and looked impassive as usual. "Severus, we were wondering if you might know anything of the…" Narcissa paused for a moment, collecting her thoughts. "That is to say, Draco's girlfriend?" Draco couldn't help but smile a bit, appreciating Narcissa's clear effort to cheer him up. She had never referred to Hermione as his girlfriend before, and he appreciated even this small acknowledgement of their relationship. It felt foreign; it felt like support.

"Not yet, but I have many of Dumbledore's personal effects, including some memories that he left for me. I expect it will take me a little while to get through everything, though I am working as quickly as I can. I will keep you both updated, but I really should get back to work. Some of this information is time-sensitive."

"Of course, Severus," Narcissa responded in a haughty tone. Draco recognized the tone as the same she used to use when Lucius was called to do an important job or recognized as an influential man.

"Please update us if you find anything on Hermione," Draco called out before Snape disappeared, perhaps in a more pleading tone than he intended.

"I will, Draco," Snape said quickly before disappearing, leaving the glass unoccupied once more.

* * *

More than half a decade earlier, Hermione's Saturday morning was as much a whirlwind as Draco's, though for very different reasons. She woke up with her head pounding, and groaned and rolled over. Some time later, there was a loud and persistent knocking at her door. "Go away," Hermione half-shouted, half-mumbled.

The door made its characteristic creak that told Hermione the person on the other side was not listening to her wishes. She looked up and saw Tom. _Well, who do you expect, Hermione?,_ she scolded herself. _No one else has access to the common room._

"Do you have a hard time understanding English, Tom?" She asked grumpily, sitting up to reach the glass of water by her bed.

"Lyra is asking for you. She said you were supposed to meet a while ago. I don't enjoy being your messenger, but I thought you would like to know she's in the common room." Hermione didn't respond for what felt like minutes, staring at him with what she knew was a dumbfounded expression. Hearing his silky voice brought back a rush of (admittedly blurry) memories from the previous night, and she felt her face grow hot as she replayed them in her head. " _I care about you."_ Had he really said that? Yes, he had. And he had kissed her neck. _You let Lord Voldemort kiss your neck! And you liked it!_

Hermione tried to push away her thoughts and focus on the present. "Thanks, Tom. I'll be out in a moment," She finally responded stiffly. He cocked his eyebrow slightly before leaving, not bothering to close the door. _Later, later, later_ , she was chanting to herself as she quickly got dressed. She threw on a yellow sweater over a white button-up and a black knee-length skirt. She was supposed to meet Lyra and Todd after breakfast for the Hufflepuff-Slytherin Quidditch game. Since they were going with Todd, they would be cheering for Hufflepuff.

There was no hope for her hair; some of it was still straight from the potion, whereas the back of it was matted and curly from being slept on. Friction could affect how long the potion lasted. She bunched it all up in one big ponytail so that the difference in texture would be slightly less obvious. Still frustrated, she ended up putting it into a half-hearted bun.

After getting ready quickly, even for her, she left her bedroom and found Lyra sitting on the couch, staring at Crookshanks who was across the room returning her gaze. "I'm so sorry, Lyra, I didn't wake up this morning. In fact, I was asleep when Tom came and got me."

"That's fine, Hermione," Lyra responded in a faraway voice, not breaking eye contact with Crookshanks.

"What are you doing, Lyra?" Hermione asked tentatively, not sure she really wanted to know the answer.

"I'm having a staring contest with your cat."

* * *

After waiting for Lyra to finish her staring contest, which Crookshanks won, they made their way to the entrance hall to meet Todd. Lyra was dressed in various shades of blue, whereas Todd seemed to be wearing more house colors than anyone else; he had on a Hufflepuff scarf, yellow shirt, a black cardigan with a badger on it, black pants, and socks with moving badgers on them. He groaned when he saw Lyra and Hermione. "Lyra! You're not in Hufflepuff colors. Why are you coming to cheer with us if you're in all blue?"

Lyra did an uncharacteristic hair flip in response. "I can't cheer with you, Todd. I'm on the Ravenclaw team."

"Then why are you coming?"

"Merely to sit with you," she responded before making her way toward the Quidditch pitch.

Todd was shaking his head, exasperated. "She drives me crazy sometimes," he muttered to no one in particular. Turning to Hermione, he smiled. "Thanks for dressing up, Hermione. You look really nice."

Hermione smiled and nearly laughed. "I appreciate the lie, but I really just rolled out of bed. But of course I would wear your House colors."

They found a seat near the back of the crowd as Hermione had made them late. They had a clear view of the players as well as the opposite side of the pitch where Slytherin's fans sat. She spotted Tom almost immediately, sitting in the front row between Abraxas and Avery. They must have saved him a seat because he left as late as she did, if not later. Tom looked somehow elegant at a Quidditch game in a nice silvery-gray sweater that was the same shade as his eyes, plain black pants, and a dark green scarf. He looked up from the pitch and made eye contact with her, his gray eyes searing.

Hermione quickly looked away and struck up a conversation with Todd. Somehow she had ended up sandwiched between her friends, although they rarely sat that way save Herbology class. She usually sat next to Lyra, with Todd on Lyra's other side. Todd seemed genuinely annoyed at Lyra for dressing in blue, though, so they ended up in a slightly different configuration than usual. "Are you going to go to the ball?" Todd was asking.

"I completely forgot about it," Hermione responded honestly. "In fact, I probably need to meet with the prefects soon and I need to get professor escorts. But no, I hadn't planned on it," she continued, now running through all the tasks she needed to complete in her mind. "What about you?"

"Lyra and I usually go together," Todd responded. "So probably we will this year, too." Lyra and Todd were nearly inseparable, but their relationship didn't seem to be more than platonic. Hermione never asked, not wanting to seem nosy, though she was a bit curious. "Don't you think you'll go with- er- Riddle?" Tom asked.

"What?" Hermione snapped. "Why would you think that?"

"Oh- I just thought- I'm sorry for asking." Todd was bright red, quickly turning and watching the players prepare for the game.

Hermione didn't respond, sneaking a glance over at Tom instead. He immediately made eye contact, smiling slightly. It wasn't really a smile she had seen from him before, or one she would have even thought would work on his marble face. It was genuine.

_This couldn't end well._


	12. Surrender

Soon after the game, Hermione found herself sandwiched in a stampede of cheering Hufflepuffs. As she made her way slowly back to the castle in the throng of yellow and black, she felt a cool touch that stood out from the rest of the hot bodies occasionally grazing her. Hermione didn't turn around. She had a lot of time to think during the Quidditch game; as she wasn't a huge fan and she knew none of the players other than an irritating Malfoy, she spent most of the game confronting the questions that she kept pushing until later.

Tom was right last night about everything. She knew after her time in the hospital wing that she was attracted to him. She had found him good-looking all along, after all, but now there was something more; a warmth when he looked at her paired with the occasional tingle down her spine or a tightness in her chest. And she knew last night was more than a quick kiss in the hallway. It was one of those nights that was defined by the electricity—or rather, magic—that crackled between them. Hermione was many things, but stupid was not one of them. She could recognize the signs of falling for someone, even if she had been ignoring them for Merlin knows how long. These feelings weren't new to her, after all. But what was new was feeling them for a known killer.

Said known killer completely ignored her attempt to get away; she knew he would. Tom grabbed her and started practically dragging her out of the crowd; how he could move against the wall of people was a testament to most people's instinctual response to him. Where he wanted to walk, they parted. Soon, blue sky replaced the badgers. Several more steps and they were in the familiar castle, and still she continued to follow wordlessly behind Tom as he led her down corridor after corridor, the cries of the crowd receding behind them. Hermione couldn't see his expression as he led her through Hogwarts, but the continual sight of portraits abruptly stopping midsentence was enough to tell her that it wasn't pleasant. Despite his demeanor, his touch wasn't painful. It was light as a feather, deceiving as he was. They both knew that he wouldn't have taken no for an answer (if he had bothered to ask her to follow him), despite the gentle way his long fingers curled around her bony wrist.

Tom paused, back facing her. They were in the same corridor in the dungeons they had been in last night. He turned around slowly, his mask fully in place. Even his gray eyes, so often expressive around Hermione, were quiet. "Pray tell me, Hermione," his voice was extra velvety, its dulcet tones caressing her name in particular. "Why would our headmaster tell you, a mere war refugee, his suspicions about a student?"

_Merlin._ This is the day I die. Last night I had been so wrapped up in my own brain—in Tom—that I had completely forgotten that my relationship with Dumbledore in this time period is completely different. Tom was right; according to her story, she had only just met Dumbledore recently. How could she spin this? She was not good at thinking on the spot like this; she wasn't Harry.

"We both know he didn't," Hermione responded, looking straight into his flat stone eyes. "But I'm not planning on telling you how I know about your… activities. It is sufficient that I know."

"It is not sufficient," Tom hissed, momentarily losing control.

"What are you going to do about it?" Hermione challenged, refusing to back down while a corner of her mind screamed at her for goading the future Dark Lord.

"You don't think I have methods of acquiring information from unwilling participants?"

"They aren't really participants if they're unwilling. And I am not doubting your myriad abilities, merely your willpower to use them against me."

"My myriad abilities?" Tom asked, smirking and ever-so-slightly raising his left eyebrow. How did he go from threatening to teasing seamlessly? And why couldn't she force herself to care more?

"That's exactly what I'm talking about," Hermione couldn't pass up the opportunity to point out that she was right.

"I'm not going to torture you… today," he was smiling wider now, but his teeth were still hidden. Despite his words, she found him breathtaking. His eyes were dancing, closer to silver fire than stone. Hermione couldn't help but feel a streak of pride, knowing that she might be the only person to see him like this.

"Am I free to go, then?" Hermione asked, her voice light.

"You don't want to be," Tom responded, and no part of her could deny the truth of his words any longer. Despite two thick layers of fabric, she felt Tom's hand as he placed it on her waist, grazing over her stomach slightly as he found exactly where her body curved under her loose yellow sweater. His other hand was more confident as he quickly found the left side of her waist. There was a moment where they just stood like that, still about a foot apart. Then he abruptly spun her and pinned her to the wall he was standing in front of moments before. His hands were still at her waist, but he began to lightly stroke the outside of her sweater, tracing the outline of her side. "Do you?"

"Excuse me?"

"Do you? Want to be free to go?" His voice was quiet, mostly confident but with a slight edge to it that told her that he really needed to hear affirmation. He had told her already, after all, that he cared about her. But knowing that she felt the same and forming the words were two entirely different things; so far she had plausible deniability that she was allowing this to happen, enough where she could argue with herself and pretend that she was still going to kill him. But how could she be responsible for bringing so much life to those haunting gray eyes and snuffing them out forever? She couldn't. And once she thought the words, they crashed over her like a tidal wave. If they were true, then there was no more mission, and she already knew that there was no going back to the future. Could she just stay here and watch everything unfold in front of her? How would things unfold?

"No," Hermione responded finally, with determination. "I want to be here. With you." In a strange twist of fate, it was the only thing she was sure of right now. She wrapped her arm possessively around him, tracing his spine through his smooth sweater with her index finger.

"We can agree on one thing, at least," Tom said quietly as he took her free hand in his before closing the space between them. Tom was so close to her that their noses grazed, and she could feel his breath tickle her slightly parted lips. Her heart was beating a million miles a minute, but it wasn't from fear, as she would have thought had someone told her she would be in this position, but anticipation. She was still idly running her finger up and down his back, while he toyed with the bright yellow sweater that was feeling increasingly hot over her button-up. "Aren't you afraid I'm going to kill you?" His upper lip brushed up against hers as he spoke.

"Are you going to kill me?"

"No." Hermione was done waiting; that was enough of a green light for her. She closed the short distance between them and kissed him. He took control almost immediately, sliding his tongue into her mouth. There was nothing careful about their kiss; the teasing was gone as she bit down hard on his lower lip, causing him to half-groan, half-snarl. Tom responded by breaking their kiss, causing her to let out a small whine that turned into a low moan as he grazed his teeth lightly along the length of her neck.

At the same time, footsteps started reverberating in the wide corridor, sounding like they were coming closer from an interlocking corridor. "They won't come down this way," Tom whispered into her ear before returning to kissing her. Hermione grabbed him by the sides of his face, feeling the slightest stubble.

"What do we have here?" A familiar snobbish voice asked from several feet away.

Tom unfortunately extricated himself from her, placing a hand next to her on the wall and turning to face the offending party. "Can I help you with something, Dorea?" His voice was a deadly whisper that Hermione would not want to be on the receiving end of. Apparently Dorea agreed as she went white as a sheet, clinging to Charlus beside her. Charlus looked merely amused, apparently misreading the figure in front of him.

"Sorry, Riddle, I didn't realize it was you," Dorea's tone didn't change, but her voice shook. "Let's go, Charlus," she said to her boyfriend, leading him away the same way they had come.

"Shall we continue after that rude interruption?" Tom asked, already kissing her neck again. The anger had evaporated from his expression, replaced by the unmistakable influence of lust.

"You're not upset that we were caught?"

Tom chuckled softly. "Charlus is a huge gossip. Everyone will know by tomorrow. And that suits me perfectly." Her response was swallowed by his fierce kiss. Thoughts could wait.

* * *

 

"When you said stay away from Hermione Prewett, I thought you meant that her and Riddle had a feud or something. I've been nothing but awful to her, you idiot!" Dorea was shouting as much as she ever did; her voice was slightly raised and her voice was much more high-pitched than normal.

"What are you on about, Dorea? Calm down," Abraxas responded, slightly taken aback. She had forced all of his roommates out so they could talk alone. Dorea knew nearly firsthand how dangerous Tom was, and she was extremely concerned that she had put a target on her back, if not from her treatment of Hermione, then for goading them when she saw them snogging in the hall earlier. His expression had been terrifying. Even without context, Dorea did not understand how Charlus did not register the amount of danger they were in.

"What I'm on about is Charlus and I decided to scare some people who were snogging in one of the dungeon corridors. Do you know who those people were?" Abraxas shook his head, clearly not understanding. Maybe he really didn't know about Hermione and Riddle. _"Hermione and Riddle!"_

Abraxas laughed. "You have to be mistaken, Dorea. I know for a fact that Riddle would never—unless he's using her."

Dorea rolled her eyes, grabbing Abraxas forcibly by the side of his head and turning him to face her. "He is not using her. He was…" Dorea didn't really know how to describe it. "It was the most human I have ever seen him look."

"He's a guy, Dorea. He was probably happy to be snogging her. She's a good kisser, at least."

"It was not the kiss. I know people." The color drained from Abraxas's face as she saw the wheels slowly turning in his head as he digested this information. He kept shaking his head, and then stopping.

"Dorea, I'm in real trouble if you're right about this. The things I've said… Salazar, the things I've done." He sat down and ran his hands through his hair so roughly it looked like he was trying to pull his platinum hair out of his head with his bare hands.

Dorea sat down next to him on the bed, patting him awkwardly on the leg. She wasn't the best at comforting people. "Anything I can do?"

He looked up at her with slightly crazed blue eyes. "Maybe. Do you have any family members that collect Hogwarts artifacts?"

Dorea couldn't help but laugh a bit at the strange question. "Sorry, what? I meant help with Riddle."

"He's looking for Hogwarts artifacts. If I were able to find any rare items, I think it could be enough to get back into his good graces. I think you're right, Dorea. I mean about Prewett. It explains why he's been so intent on torturing me lately." Abraxas looked down but Dorea could still see the fear radiating off of him.

"I do have one distant family member, actually. I don't know if she has anything rare, but she would be more likely to tell you than me. She has a weakness for attractive young men."

"You think I'm attractive, Dorea?" Abraxas half-chuckled.

"Only to old women, Abraxas," Dorea teased, trying to lighten the mood.

"Thanks. Really appreciate the vote of confidence. So could you put me in contact with her?"

"I'll write to her later on today. You'll probably want to pay a social call, and you'll need a good excuse."

"What about that I'm researching Hogwarts history? I am one of the few NEWT students in History of Magic. I can pretend to have a serious academic interest that I want to pursue after school."

Dorea smiled. "That might work. I mean this in the nicest way, but you really are much cleverer than you look." Abraxas reached over the side of his bed for his closest textbook, bringing it toward her in a wide arc and lightly hitting her with it. She responded by confiscating the book and placing it as far away from him as possible without moving from the spot she had staked out on the bed.

"So who is this creepy old lady, anyway?" Abraxas asked, laughing. Dorea was glad to see him so optimistic. Hopefully, she wouldn't be leading him down a dead end, but either way, he needed a distraction from worrying about Riddle. Part of her wondered if she shouldn't have told him, but it was probably best for him to act accordingly. Her boyfriend was such a gossip anyway that Abraxas would have found out one way or another. It was probably best coming from her.

"Her name is Hepzibah Smith. I'll write to her tomorrow."

Abraxas nodded, platinum hair bobbing slightly. "It's a plan."


	13. Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay this week, everyone! This summer is a bit crazy for me, but I'll still be trying to stick to my weekly update schedule. Hope you all are enjoying and thanks for sticking with me so far. :)

Hermione mostly spent the weekend in her room, interacting with Tom a few times but not quite like she had on Saturday. It wasn't that she in denial that something was happening between them, because whatever was happening seemed to be growing without her permission. No; it was just that she was letting time freeze, if only momentarily, before she became completely subsumed in her budding relationship with Tom. A week ago, she was in such healthy denial about everything but her attraction to Tom, and now nearly overnight she had accepted her feelings and realized that she had preemptively failed at her task.

But where did that leave things? Somehow, despite her new resolution not to murder Tom (which now seemed almost laughable that someone who was supposed to be one of the most intelligent wizards of her time ever thought she could kill anyone—even Tom—in cold blood), Hermione felt that her life was inexplicably intertwined with Tom's, but she hadn't figured out what that meant, or how she could proceed in being involved with someone who she knew would only worsen as his soul degraded.

But their kiss… Hermione had been kissed before, of course. But it had never been so consuming. Her other thoughts weren't just pushed to the back of her mind; they seemed to disappear altogether. Even sex had never been that passionate for Hermione before, and sex with Draco was never bad; she had always enjoyed herself. But when she had sex with Tom, it would be… _No, no… no! You are not thinking about having sex with Tom Marvolo Riddle._ A smaller voice in the back of her head added: _not yet._

It wasn't just their physical chemistry, either. Hermione had been somewhat prepared for how handsome and charming young Tom Riddle would be. She had seen through his veneer so quickly that she thought herself out of the woods. But she wasn't prepared for how un-Voldemort-like Tom would be. He wasn't the same person who was obsessed with murdering her best friend; Tom was much more interested in academics and pushing the boundaries of magic, and even if his interests tended more toward the Dark Arts, she couldn't help but see herself in him. Ultimately, she knew Tom would be a challenge, but expected that to be a hurdle to overcome, not something to make her care for him.

* * *

Hermione had skipped breakfast Monday morning as a last attempt to avoid interacting with the rest of the student population for as long as humanly possible. When she went to leave for Potions, however, she found Tom casually reading his textbook in their common room, not-so-subtly waiting for her.

As they walked to class, Tom had his arm around her. Although his touch was light, something about it that was possessive; maybe it was how close he held her, the way his finger would occasionally toy with her upper arm, or the occasional burning look he shot her way. Either way, she knew she should be irritated with his behavior, but was suppressing a smile instead. As they arrived at their first Monday morning class, Potions, she half-heartedly tried to detach from him. He allowed it (perhaps because they couldn't fit through the doorway as is), but threaded his left hand through hers as they walked into the room.

They weren't late, but weren't early, either. Hermione noticed almost immediately that Abraxas was sitting in her normal seat, leaving a seat empty for her next to Tom. She tried to walk to her normal table, but Abraxas gave her a terrified look and Tom pulled her toward the table closest to the door. Reluctantly, she slid in the seat to the right of Tom, Mildred Bulstrode in her normal seat to his left. Hermione didn't turn around, keeping her eyes fixed straight ahead, but felt everyone in the small class staring at her. It turned out that staring straight ahead was hardly a helpful task, because Slughorn was unabashedly smirking at the pair of them, actually sending her a wink before diving into his lesson.

Luckily, they had been working on shorter potions so she wasn't in the middle of any potions with Olive, although she didn't know if that would have changed the behavior of a very attractive Slytherin sitting to her left. Hermione needed to have a talk with him later. It was incredibly endearing (and she hated how much), but he couldn't just decide where she sat in Potions. What really took her aback, though, wasn't the controlling bent of his actions, but how calculating and detail-oriented he was. Clearly, he had already told Abraxas that he would be required to move seats in order to sit next to her in class—or did Abraxas really just know Tom that well? She had only been in this time a few months, after all. It was perfectly possible that this was something Tom did with all of his girlfriends.

Potions class had been an uncomfortable class all semester with Olive, so the added awkwardness of the day didn't bother Hermione as much as it otherwise would have. Mildred Bulstrode was obviously not informed of the new seating arrangement, and was not attempting to hide her dislike of Hermione as the three of them worked on creating a complicated potion designed to remove boils. (Hermione thought it a fair guess that Madam Ward had ran out). Mildred did not want to demonstrate her distaste in front of Tom, though, so she resorted to glaring at Hermione intently while Tom was busy stirring or chopping, and returning to her baseline irritable expression when Tom turned back around.

Hermione was glad when Professor Slughorn announced that class was over, and quickly gathered her books and rushed up to ask him about chaperoning the ball.

"And who might you be going with, Ms. Prewett," Slughorn inquired, wagging his eyebrows all about in what she assumed was supposed to be a suggestive gesture.

"Well, I don't think I'll be going, actually. The last ball I went to wasn't exactly great, and I'm not much of a dance person."

"Oh, but you have to go!"

"I appreciate the encouragement, Professor, but I really don't think—"

"You misunderstand me, Ms. Prewett," Slughorn cut her off. "I mean you really _have to_ go. The first dance is always kicked off by the Head Girl and Head Boy. That shouldn't be a problem for you, I suspect." Hermione didn't respond. She just went from trying not to deal with her relationship with Tom to being told that in two months' time, she was expected to dance with him at a ball. Making matters worse is her heart involuntarily skipped at the thought.

"Oh… Well I will have to stop by, at least." Slughorn smiled warmly and then thankfully moved on to discussing who else normally chaperoned in more detail.

Tom was waiting for her in the hall, unsurprisingly. "How did it go with Professor Slughorn?"

"He'll be chaperoning," she responded curtly. First Tom refuses to tell her that the Head Girl is in charge of the ball, and he very conveniently neglected to tell her of the dancing arrangement. The more irritating thing was that his behavior was entirely unsurprising, yet she was still with him.

"It went well, then," Tom responded with a badly suppressed smirk.

"Mmhm," Hermione hummed, not engaging.

Herbology was her next class, and she didn't plan on ditching her two good friends for her new whatever-Tom-was. "I'll be sitting in my normal seat," Hermione said coldly before sitting in her currently empty table. Tom openly scowled for a moment before smoothing his features over and sitting in his own seat.

Lyra and Todd filed in together shortly after she sat down, sitting on either side of her. Todd was nervously shifting around in his seat, and kept shooting glances at Lyra.

Lyra was the one to break the silence. "You missed breakfast this morning," she observed as she wrestled with a quill that had a bright pink sticky substance binding it to her bookbag.

"I wasn't hungry. I ate a lot for dinner last night." It was partly true, though the main reason for her absence was the knowledge that the entire school had probably spent the weekend gossiping about her and Tom. Saturday she survived off of her Honeydukes purchases, but when Tom brought her a serious helping of food from the kitchens, she couldn't resist (though not without delivering a series of lectures about house elf enslavement).

"But you weren't in the Great Hall all weekend," Todd blurted out. He was still fidgeting and it was making Hermione uncomfortable just watching him. She looked past their table and saw a lot of other students were clearly listening while trying to look like they weren't doing just that. _Wonderful._

"I got food from the kitchens."  _If you want your gossip, you have to at least ask for it._ Hermione reached into her bag for her books and notes, as she realized with horror that her bag had one notebook too many in it—a certain notebook that looked either black or a very dark green depending on the lighting. In the bright light streaming in through the windows of the greenhouse, the notebook stood in stark contrast to her plain black one. She looked for the first time since she sat down in Tom's direction. He was holding his quill and looking at her with too much mirth.

Hermione ignored him and turned back to Todd. He would just have to come get his notebook if he wanted it. She was not crossing the shark-infested waters to deliver it.

"Are you and Riddle—um—"

"Charlus has been telling everyone that he caught you and Riddle snogging in the dungeons after the Quidditch game," Lyra said, her voice triumphant (likely because she had pulled her quill loose from the strange substance in her bookbag).

"Yes, that's true." It wasn't Hermione who responded, it was Tom. His silky voice rang out in the quiet room as he reached out for his notebook, brushing Hermione's fingers in a way that would seem accidental to every other pair of eyes in the room, but Hermione recognized the action for what it was: a performance.

* * *

"What was that earlier?" Tom snarled before releasing her arm. It was after dinner, and he had insisted on walking her out only to drag her to what was becoming their typical corridor. _Godric. I have a typical dark corridor with the Dark Lord._

"You can't forcibly drag me here every time you want to have a conversation. Especially when we share a common room. And you'll have to be more specific than 'that earlier,'" Hermione responded, rolling her eyes.

"You were cold during Herbology."

"Because I didn't come give you a notebook that you intentionally left in my bookbag like a puppy?"

Tom chuckled softly, idly twirling and untwirling one of her curls around his index finger. "Why would I plant a book in your bag when I wanted you to sit next to me?"

Hermione pondered that for a moment before responding. "I suppose you must have known I would sit in my normal seat. It's either impressive or deeply disturbing." _It's certainly both._ "Regardless, I was merely responding to your overtly possessive behavior all day."

"And why would you have a problem with that?" The corridor was too dim for her to read his expression in his eyes, and his face was smooth as always, but there was a slight edge to his tone that she found simultaneously dangerous and oddly inviting, feelings that she was becoming increasingly used to having at once. His grip on her hand tightened as she continued to make small circles on the soft flesh of his hand with her thumb.

"I don't like to feel like someone's property, even yours."

Tom pushed the hair he had been playing with behind her ear as he leaned forward to whisper, the sharp cut of his cheekbone brushing against her more rounded cheeks ever so slightly. "You aren't my property, but you are mine."

Hermione responded by grabbing his jaw, a gesture he understood immediately as his lips crashed into hers again. As they kissed, no less hungrily than the first time, Hermione found her hand had darted up inside his shirt of its own accord. As they broke apart, she idly traced the indentations in his skin where her nails had dug into his bare back. She didn't respond, but they both knew what the message was: _you're mine, too._

* * *

Right before her second Potions lesson of the week, Hermione headed to the bathroom, taking a moment to splash water on her face.

"You can stop staring at your reflection. It's not going to change," Mildred said from behind her.

"Excuse me?" Hermione responded, a bit taken aback.

"You heard me. I don't know what Tom could possibly see in you, but now that he's decided to date, he'll find that there are plenty of other witches that are much more… desirable." Oh, so that's what the change in tone was about. Hermione told herself not to take the bait, but her blood was boiling. Her confidence was bolstered, though, by Mildred implicitly admitting that Tom had never had a girlfriend before.

"Jealous, Mildred?" Hermione quipped in an even tone, though the knuckles on her left hand were turning white from the fierceness of her grasp on the sink. It felt like fourth year all over again, where no one could possibly believe that someone as desirable as Krum would want to go out with the mousy bookworm.

"Why would I be jealous of you? Tom's too good for you. He'll realize it soon enough."

"Tom doesn't seem to think so."

"Don't flatter yourself. You're shiny and new; it will wear off." A very strong part of Hermione wanted to hex Mildred, but she walked away instead, wrapping her arm around Tom's waist as she met up with him in the hallway. If Tom was put off by her behavior, he didn't show it.

When they arrived in Potions, Hermione took the middle seat that belonged to Tom, and threw her bookbag on top of Mildred's regular seat. Tom smirked but otherwise didn't respond. When Mildred walked in, she came to her normal seat, but Hermione met her with a fierce glare and a calm voice. "This seat's taken."

"You can't just—" Mildred started to say in a high-pitched voice, but what Hermione "can't just" do, they never found out, because Tom snaked an arm around Hermione and cut in in his velvety smooth voice.

"I believe you heard my girlfriend, Mildred." _Tom Riddle's girlfriend._ Hermione found she didn't mind as she met Tom's hand around her shoulder with her own.


	14. Words About Wards

Tom sighed audibly as he finally gave up on his task, having to exercise his considerable self-control to prevent himself from cursing Hermione's irritating cat who was perched on their brown armchair, staring intently at Tom. When Hermione had first begun on Hogwarts, Tom made a cursory attempt to enter her room, mostly testing to see whether the room was warded and if any straightforward spells would grant him access. When the room was decidedly not forthcoming, he had ceased his attempts, deciding that the effort required to access the room was not worth the reward.

Back in September, the attempt had been nothing but a reflex, like a snake testing out the boundaries of its surroundings to assess the limitations and test for weaknesses. Now, Tom had tried in earnest to take down Hermione's wards. The timing had been perfect; she had headed to the library, which gave Tom two hours at minimum. But he had to admit that the wards were seemingly impenetrable; magical force would simply not suffice. Hope was not lost, however; if Tom knew anything about wards, they would generally only prevent those from entering who did not receive consent from the creator. _As though I needed another reason to obtain access to Hermione's bedroom._

The fact that Tom was unable to enter Hermione's bedroom only made him want to search it more, and not only because of the thrill of a challenge to someone like Tom who rarely encountered such obstacles. No; it was because a witch who had so heavily warded her bedroom did not do so for idle reasons. She was hiding secrets much more serious than a false last name.

Tom still hadn't been able to ascertain how Hermione knew about his activities in sixth year. Although he had thus far been unable to master the art of Legilimency, his Occlemency skills were exceptional. Even Dumbledore had been unable to penetrate his walls, and even if Hermione was a prodigy, Tom begrudgingly had to admit that there was almost no chance that her skill exceeded Dumbledore's. And even if it did, somehow, he would at least feel the uninvited presence of another, and he had never felt Hermione make even the smallest attempt to invade his mind.

The source could not be Myrtle's ghost, either. When Tom heard that Myrtle had chosen to spend her afterlife on earth, he panicked momentarily. Luckily, however, Myrtle held enough distaste for Olive Hornby to haunt her almost immediately following her death. One had to admire the depth of her spite. The haunting gave Tom a valuable opportunity to speak to Myrtle; he told Olive, of course, that he wanted to pay his respects. He fed Myrtle the same story, playing the sweet prefect as he gently questioned her, finally learning she knew nothing of value, as he had hoped.

The only person who Tom had confided in regarding his lineage and subsequent opening of the Chamber was Malfoy. This realization had initially given Tom pause; after all, Maloy had clearly been very attracted to Hermione. Tom saw the lust in his eyes when he delivered the assignment and when the blond later spoke of the results. Malfoy's saving grace was his deeply held prejudice; his enthusiasm for Tom's activities the previous year stemmed almost entirely from the fact that they were directed at Mudbloods, and although Malfoy's attraction to Hermione never waned, it became intermingled with deep disgust and self-loathing after he learned that she was not the pureblood witch he believed her to be. No, it wasn't Malfoy.

That left one possibility: Dumbledore. It was the most obvious one, after all. Hermione was in a very intoxicated state that night in the hallway, and she had said it was the old man. The simplest explanation would be the believe her; but why tell her anything? What was their relationship? They would have to be extremely close for Dumbledore to share his suspicions about Tom. Their closeness would also explain his seeming fondness for her that developed slightly too quickly, and the fact that she was admitted to Hogwarts as a transfer student. But how did they know each other?

Tom thought about all this and more while he walked the familiar path the library, easily keeping his fake smile plastered on as he discovered with disappointment that she wasn't alone. Hermione's books that she brought down with her were splayed across the small table she sat at, with Todd sitting next to her in a corner he had staked out for himself, where he balanced his parchment on the corner while he wrote.

Why had he come down here? Several people in the library had already spotted him, eyeing him with a combination of curiosity and lust, the proportions of which were determined by the source. He walked over to the already crowded table and sat opposite Todd. Neither of them had noticed him yet. Tom pulled out his Arithmancy book and placed it more forcefully than necessary on the table, causing Hermione and Todd to look up.

"Er—Riddle—you're here." _Always so articulate._

"Hello, Todd," Tom replied, widening the smile as he greeted him. "Hermione," he nodded, dropping his tone slightly. Tom always enjoyed watching Hermione's reaction to him; she tightened for a moment with a palpable discomfort and then looked at him, her wide brown eyes blazing.

"Hi, Tom," she replied shortly, moving her Potions textbook over a few inches in a show of welcome before returning to her work.

Tom decided to take the opportunity to be productive; he knew there would be no prying Hermione away from her own work, at least not with the unwelcome presence sitting across from him. After Tom finished the reading he had brought, he surveyed the library and spotted Black and Potter arguing as they walked into the library. They were such an odd couple; she had a straightforward snobbery to her that Tom associated with proud purebloods. Although Potter was from a family of similar status, he had the type of attitude that made light of everything, including blood status. In fact, one of his close friends was a halfblood, whereas he could never imagine Black associating with anyone she considered to be below her. Her and Malfoy really would have been a better match, but Malfoy seemed to be interested in almost any woman but her, despite the absurd rumors Tom always heard about them. Why would they have gone through the trouble of breaking off their betrothal to sneak around?

The strange couple ended up approaching their table. "Hullo, Hermione, haven't seen you in a while."

Hermione smiled as she looked up, her smile wavering slightly and then re-forming into a less sincere one when she spotted Black. _Interesting._ "Charlus, Dorea. Good to see you both," The words sounded strange formal coming out of Hermione's mouth. "Dorea, I wanted to talk to you actually," Hermione continued in a businesslike tone. Tom watched Black as Hermione addressed her. Black was one of the most composed people in Hogwarts, but Tom knew what he saw: a twitch when Hermione addressed her. A twitch of fear. Why would Black be afraid of Hermione?

"…and I was wondering if you need any assistance with anything?" Tom had stopped listening for a minute and had no idea what they were talking about.

Black shook her head a little too vigorously for her typically subtle mannerisms. "How lovely of you to offer, but we're completely prepared."

Hermione laughed at that. "I'm a bit concerned at the volume of green."

"There's no need," Black responded quickly.

"You're not very convincing, but I'm not sure we need to meet. Can you show me any plans?"

"I'll get them to you next week," Black responded.

She had started to turn around when Tom decided to test his hypothesis. "Goodbye, Dorea." Black turned back around as though she had whiplash, icy blue eyes drowning in anxiety. It wasn't Hermione that she was scared of; it was him. And he had a feeling he knew who was to blame for this development.

"Goodbye, Riddle."

* * *

"What was that about with Black earlier?" Hermione and Tom had moved to their common room over the course of the day, Hermione still pouring over books, but slightly more half-heartedly.

"Just making sure her decorations committee is staying in line," Hermione mumbled, more to herself than Tom.

Tom slid closer to her on the couch, toying with a particularly tight curl against the nape of her neck until she turned around abruptly. "Is there a reason you're distracting me from my work or do you just find it amusing?"

"A little of both." Tom had never been a very light-hearted person, but found he enjoyed teasing Hermione more than he would have expected. "I was wondering why you were mumbling about the ball. You don't mumble."

"No reason in particular." Although Tom had yet to perfect the art of Legilimency, he was born with a natural talent for sensing when someone deviated from the truth, though Tom couldn't think of why Hermione would bother to lie to him about something seemingly trivial, unless something had happened between her and Black that explained the strange tension earlier today. But then why would Black be scared—terrified, really—of him?

"Hmm," Tom hummed, stroking her bare arm lightly, oddly satisfied at watching as small goosebumps formed on the surface. "I don't believe you."

Hermione laughed. "Not everything is a conspiracy, you know."

Tom didn't laugh, but felt a small smile form as he returned her gaze. "Hermione. We both know you're not exactly carefree."

Hermione had abandoned her work at this point, and was squarely facing him as she started tracing over his face with her hand. "What gives you that impression?"

"I've always had a gift for reading people," Tom responded easily. Despite the fact that the night after Slug Club was the night he discovered how little he knew of Hermione, he had felt more comfortable with her ever since because of how much she knew of him. He had always been a favorite of many, if not most, of the girls at Hogwarts. But part of him knew how quickly admiration could turn to fear. The fact that Hermione could laugh with him, even be with him, after she knew one of his darkest secrets was unexpectedly exhilarating. "But you've changed the subject."

"I'm—well it's a bit embarrassing, really," Hermione said nervously as she idly brushed her thumb against his hairline. "I'm nervous about the ball."

Tom didn't bother masking his surprise. "What about it?"

"Well, I was planning on avoiding it entirely, but Professor Slughorn said that we're supposed to start off the dancing, and I don't really like dancing and I don't know if I'm supposed to go alone or we're supposed to go together or—"

"Hermione," Tom cut her off laughingly. "I haven't even thought about the ball, but of course we will go together."

"And do I have a choice in the matter?" Hermione snapped.

"I don't understand why you're angry. You said you were nervous about the dance, and having a date. Wouldn't going together solve both of those problems?"

"You're missing the point, Tom. You can't just decide that we're going together, or just decide that I'm your girlfriend."

"And what would you decide?" Tom asked, his voice silky but with an accompanying edge that he couldn't entirely bite back. He could practically taste the disappointment, bitter and dry on his tongue.

"The same," Hermione responded in a low voice, her big brown eyes reassuring and warm. Unfamiliar. Tom leaned forward and caught her slightly parted mouth with his own. She tasted sweet and salty, like taffies he would get at the orphanage once a year, always in the summertime.

Hermione broke the kiss too quickly for his liking, nose still pressed against nose. "Just because I would choose the same doesn't mean you can decide, though." Her voice was harsh, but her eyes betrayed her.

Tom sprung up, having her pinned down onto the couch horizontally within seconds as he started kissing and biting her neck insistently. "I can tell you're _really_ upset with me, Hermione," he said, chuckling as she let out a low moan.

"Tom—I—we'll discuss this later," she relented. When he finally made his way over to her mouth, her kiss was devouring. He didn't mind.


	15. Confessions

"Why are you lingering? Do you want to get yourself killed?" Snape snarled, dragging the blond teenager into his potions work room by the collar.

"Was that necessary?" Draco drawled.

"Yes," the Potions Master responded shortly. "Well? Did you bring what we discussed or did you just come to put both of us at risk?"

Draco rolled his eyes and handed over a bright red and gold scarf—it would have been an eyesore, really, if it weren't Hermione's. As is, he was reluctant to part with it. "Will this work?"

"Yes, of course. I already explained to you what will work." Snape had been in an especially bad mood lately. His mother said it was because he felt guilty for not following Dumbledore's wishes, but Draco could not get himself to care about what the old goat wanted. When Snape first told him that Dumbledore had sent Hermione back in time based on some vague prophecy and lied to her about him being dead—even using a fucking boggart as his dead body—Draco had felt nothing but cold fury for his late headmaster.

"Did you figure out how long it will take?" Because apparently going back in time fifty-five years had its consequences—creating an additional timeline, according to Snape—he couldn't simply go back in time to find Hermione. He had to somehow make it to the new timeline. Snape had found a potion that achieved that task, but it only allowed him to make the same time jump as Hermione had, so by the time he arrived, she would have had to spend more time than he liked with the teenage Dark Lord. Draco just hoped he wouldn't be too late. The fact that she couldn't even affect their time period just made Draco angrier—what was the point of sending her back? Snape said that Dumbledore hoped for another timeline free of Voldemort's reign. It wasn't good enough, but then no reason would be good enough for what Dumbledore had done.

"It's a complicated potion. Near the end of January." Three. Fucking. Months. Brilliant. Hopefully young Voldemort didn't kill Hermione by then.

* * *

"What about this one?" Lyra asked in a sing-song voice. Her and Hermione were shopping for dresses; it was the beginning of December, and the ball was only a couple weeks away, so they had decided to use the Hogsmeade weekend to shop together, an experience that was proving to be interesting.

"Well… it's nice." _Better than the last one._ Lyra had taken Hermione into an off-the-wall dress store that was a bit off the beaten path. The dress Lyra currently had on did look beautiful on the dark-haired witch; it was a shiny silver mermaid-cut dress with moving beaded turquoise fishes.

"You don't like it."

"It's just… it's very pretty on you, the fish are just a bit distracting."

Lyra smiled. "Oh, I like the fish. I think it will make dancing more lively."

Hermione couldn't help but laugh. "I think you're right on that one."

"But you haven't tried anything on." Hermione looked around the room, catching the eye of a dress that gave off the impression of a planet with rings orbiting around it.

"I think I'm going to check out the dress shop we passed on the way. It's a little more my style."

"Suit yourself. It's a bit of a rip off, really." Although Hermione hadn't had enough galleons initially, when she told Tom she was going to wear a dress she had worn to Slug Club to the ball she suddenly found herself in possession of many galleons that certainly weren't from the orphanage. Arguments would have been futile, and out of all the things Tom did, stealing money from his followers was really the least of Hermione's concerns.

Surprisingly, Lyra was a wonderful shopping companion. Despite her strange personal taste, she had an eye for what worked and what didn't, and was very blunt in expressing it.

"No," she said simply as Hermione walked out of the dressing room in a light green dress with a very full skirt. Hermione walked back in and sighed as she changed into a tight bronze dress Lyra had insisted upon, probably because of the color. Hermione would have never picked it out herself because it was so revealing. The neckline was a bit low for Hermione's taste and the dress hugged her like a glove.

"I don't know about this one, Lyra."

"I like it."

"Really?" Hermione asked hesitantly. She saw Lyra nod in the mirror. After a few minutes of talking herself into it, Hermione bought the dress.

Hermione and Lyra decided to celebrate their finds with butterbeers at the Three Broomsticks. Hermione thought briefly back to her last butterbeer here and brushed it back with a shudder.

"Thanks for your help, Lyra."

"It was fun. I've never been dress shopping with anyone else before."

"Are you excited about the ball?"

"I'm sure Todd and I will have a fine time."

"Are you two—um—?" Hermione waited for Lyra to catch on, but she just stared on blankly. "Going out?"

Lyra had a mildly confused look on her face. "No."

"I was just curious."

Lyra just shrugged, sipping her butterbeer. After they finished, Hermione started walking toward the castle and Lyra started off without any explanation in the other direction.

"Lyra!" No response. "Lyra!"

"Hmm?"

"The castle is this way," Hermione said, gesturing in the direction of the carriages.

"I know. I have a job interview. I don't want to be late," Lyra said before sauntering off down the crowded street. Hermione waited a moment before turning around with a sigh and trudging through the snow.

* * *

"Any luck?" Hermione had just walked into her common room, and Tom was lounging on the couch, curled up with Crookshanks and a book. He pushed his tortoise shell reading glasses down his slender nose when he addressed her and Hermione stopped in her tracks for a second before catching her breath. They had been officially dating now for nearly two months but Hermione was still very much affected by her boyfriend (and it still felt a little strange to call Tom that).

"Yes." Tom raised his eyebrow slightly at her tone as he idly ran his edge of his glasses over his bottom lip. She ignored him and continued. "I did find a dress, although it took a while, I'm actually quite happy with it."

"Can I see it?" Tom was looking at her unabashedly in a way that made her feel completely naked, despite her multiple layers of winter clothing.

"No, you can't see it. You'll have to wait until the ball."

"And why is that?"

"Because that's what I decided. You'll just have to deal with it."

Tom glared at her for a moment before returning to his reading.

"So…" Hermione had been working up the nerve to ask him a question she, of course, already knew the answer to. "Are you going on the train home after the ball?"

Tom put his book down and slipped his mask on that he rarely wore in her presence lately. It stung a bit but she knew it was just a defense mechanism. "I will be staying at Hogwarts," he responded slowly in clipped tones. "Since your parents are dead and you don't actually have any family, I assume you will be doing the same?" _Ouch._

"Harsh, Tom," Hermione said in a low voice, her eyes welling up with tears against her own will. "Can I tell you a secret?"

"I can't stop you," Tom sighed.

"You can. I'm asking you."

"Well, go on then."

"My parents aren't dead, but I'll never be able to see them again. When the threat"— _you—_ "became serious, I wiped myself from their memories. Completely."

"Why were you targeted?"

"What?" Tom repeated his question, his face unreadable.

"I'm trying to talk to you about something very painful, and your response is to try to extract information out of me. Just a tip, a better way to do that is to comfort me first."

"Merlin, Hermione. If you were anyone else, I'm sure that's exactly what I would have done, but you are so damn mysterious. Even just now, you avoided the question."

"I was targeted because I was part of the resistance." Technically true. "Is that what you wanted to know?"

"Wait—"

"No. It's my turn." Sadness had quickly turned to anger and indignation, something that seemed to happen more often than it should around Tom. "What happened to your parents?"

Tom stiffened, pushing back slightly from the couch cushion. "My mother died in childbirth. I've never met my father."

"I know that's not true."

Tom's eyes turned red, and it wasn't just a flash. "If you know so much about me, why are you asking me questions?"

"I just want to know more about you. Not just facts, but you know, who you are." Despite the fact that she was standing and he was seated, she felt very small and childish as her voice shook and her body tensed with fear.

Tom scoffed, bitterly shaking his head. "Hermione, you already know who I am. _I'm a murderer._ The sooner you internalize that, the better." With a flourish of his robes and a haphazard toss of his textbook, he was gone, leaving Hermione alone again, clutching her garment bag like a security blanket.

* * *

"I killed my father." It was the next morning, and Hermione was reading in the common room, secretly hoping that Tom would come out of his room. His declaration was completely unexpected, not even preceded by a greeting. He plopped down on the couch as he said it, studying her intently, but he wasn't angry as he had been last night. Tom was looking at her as though she were a strange creature he didn't understand, which was a bit odd as he was the one who just confessed to murder.

Hermione slowly rose and met him on the couch, quietly slipping her fingers into his and pressing her forehead against the sharp edge of his cheekbone. "What happened?" She asked quietly, treading carefully.

Tom grabbed her by the jaw and pushed her face back from his roughly. Hermione felt a bit startled but realized he needed to look into her eyes to gauge her reactions. "When I found out I was a wizard, I thought that I must have gotten it from him." Tom scoffed at that. Rage briefly appeared and then receded in Tom's smooth face. "I didn't."

"You don't have to talk about it, Tom."

"Obviously," he responded curtly.

Hermione bit her lip and waited for him to continue. "He's a Muggle who hated my mother and her magic. I had spent so many years hearing about how awful Muggles were and I didn't really believe it and then I met that—him—and I understood. They don't understand. He didn't want anything that had to do with magic."

"I'm sorry that happened to you, Tom." Hermione had to stop herself from refuting his impression of muggles; that was a conversation for another time. They sat quietly for a few moments. Tom was gripping Hermione's hand so much that it hurt, but she didn't let go.

"So I showed him what happens to people who don't respect magic." His voice was so low that she wouldn't have been able to hear it if she weren't inches away from him. "I hated him so much."

Hermione waited to see if he was done before whispering, "he's gone now." Despite the fact that Tom was telling her about someone he had killed, her heart went out to him.

Tom moved his hand from the death grip on her jaw to tuck her hair behind her ear. "I'm sorry about your parents." The apology meant so much more coming from him than it would from anyone else.

"Thanks." Hermione tentatively nudged her head in between Tom's and his neck, wrapping her arms gently around him. He responded by crushing her with a tight squeeze and showed no signs of letting go. She cried quietly on his shoulder. Whether it was for him or her parents, she didn't know, but it didn't really matter.


	16. Granger

"Would you like a candy, Ms. Prewett? I have lemon drops and strawberry pops."

"I'm fine, thank you, Professor." Hermione was squirming around the chair in Dumbledore's office, there in response to a summons she had received at breakfast this morning. Although Dumbledore's presence had provided such a comfort upon her arrival as a sort of anchor to her past and future, she was couldn't help but feel nervous as she had not spoken one-on-one with her Transfiguration professor since she and Tom had very publicly become a couple.

"I'm sure you're wondering why I've asked you here." His blue eyes had their familiar twinkle, but he was as hard to read as he had ever been.

"Yes, Professor."

"What are your plans for the holiday?"

"Excuse me?" Hermione was expecting a reprimand, not an idle chat.

"I merely inquired about your holiday plans."

"Of course, sir. I apologize. I'll be staying here. You know that I have to stay until the dance, and considering I have nowhere else to go, I'll stay on for Christmas and New Years as well."

Dumbledore smiled at that. "Yes, Horace—excuse me, Professor Slughorn—assured me that he informed you of your duties to lead the Ball. But I've noticed that you've made many friends since you've been here, such as Ms. Lovegood. Surely you can accompany her for the holiday?"

"Well, I haven't been invited, sir. And besides, I'm fine with staying here over the holiday. The castle feels more like home than anywhere else at this point." Hermione smiled sadly, thinking of past holidays with her parents that seemed like lifetimes ago, when in reality they were only a few years back. The last couple Christmases during the war had been bleak at best. It would be nice to at least celebrate the holiday, even if she couldn't be with her parents.

"Is there another reason you're looking forward to staying here over the holiday?" Dumbledore's eyes had turned piercing, but not unkind.

"I'm not sure what you mean, sir. As I said, I have nowhere to go." Hermione forced a chuckle.

Dumbledore smiled kindly, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I know I shouldn't be asking you about this, Ms. Prewett, but I'm concerned about how close you are becoming to Mr. Riddle."

"And why would that be, sir?" Hermione asked somewhat more sharply than she intended as she fidgeted with her blue and bronze scarf.

"While Mr. Riddle is an exceptional student, like yourself, I have reasons to be concerned about him. To put it bluntly, Ms. Prewett, I am becoming increasingly concerned for your safety if you persist in this association."

"May I ask why you are just telling me this now, Professor?" Hermione had been wondering this for a while, but had assumed it was out of respect for Tom's privacy. Dumbledore's current to-the-point attitude had made her question that conclusion, though. Why would he hold back and then assassinate Tom's character in one meeting?

"I have my reasons, Ms. Prewett, but at this point, I cannot in good conscience hold my tongue on the subject, though it may be wise to do so."

Hermione tried to stop twisting her fingers around in her lap and straighten her spine. She was mostly successful except for the fact that her right hand had a vicelike grip on her left. "And why would it be unwise, Professor?" Hermione tried to keep her tone casual in hopes that Dumbledore would do something exceedingly unlikely: slip up and tell her more information than he ought to.

"It is generally considered unwise to spread gossip about one's own students."

"But you think it's more than just gossip?" _Because I know it is._

"What gossip have you heard, Ms. Prewett?"

"You're the one that brought up gossip, Professor."

Dumbledore surveyed her curiously. "I see that perhaps I underestimated you, Ms. Prewett. You are aware that Mr. Riddle is dangerous?" Hermione felt the familiar pressure of someone trying to break her Occlemency walls.

"Professor!" Hermione exclaimed. "It is not advisable for you to have information about the future. Wasn't it you who said that?"

"I don't know what you mean, Ms. Prewett." Despite his uncharacteristically snappish response, the attempt ceased.

"Even the person you have become in the future wouldn't send unprepared schoolgirls back in time, Professor. I think I know how Legilimency feels."

"Well, I can see that this meeting has reached a natural end. I will not be here over the holiday, but I will be reachable by owl. Please feel free to contact me should you need assistance."

"Thank you, Professor. I hope you have a lovely holiday," Hermione said flatly as she exited the office. As Hermione closed the office door quietly behind her, running through the meeting in her mind, she didn't notice Tom in the same hallway. In fact, Hermione didn't know when he had popped up, only that he was staring at her intently as she turned around to walk toward their common room.

"Tom! You scared me." There were two sentences she had never expected to say so lightly. Tom did look a bit scary, though. He was mostly in shadow but enough of his face was lit by a nearby candle to make out a harsh expression.

As Hermione was quickly becoming accustomed to, Tom didn't respond to her directly, instead scrutinizing her before half-asking and half-demanding what she was doing coming out of Dumbledore's office.

"Professor Dumbledore wanted to talk about my accommodations over the holidays."

"Why? Doesn't he know that you're staying here?"

"He wasn't sure; he thought I might be going to Lyra's. I think he was just checking up on me." It was true, technically, but the subject of the checkup would be better unmentioned.

Tom seemed to be mulling things over, idly putting his arm around her and walking toward their common room as more of an automatic reaction than anything. "Everything alright, Tom?"

Tom nodded slightly, sending a loose lock of hair down his forehead. "I just find it interesting how close you are with Professor Dumbledore." The word "Professor" was pronounced in a mocking voice, an edge to his tone that would have sent Hermione into sheer terror just weeks before.

"And why is that interesting?"

He shrugged, but as always with his shrugs, it looked forced and calculated, not even approaching the casual effect he might have intended.

"Tom?"

"You had mentioned that Professor Dumbledore was the person that told you certain interesting tidbits about me. Will you tell me if that's true?" Damn. Right to the point.

"Tom… I can't tell you how I know what I know. You know that."

"That was a lot of words to dance around the one you meant: no."

"Tom…" Hermione repeated, frustrated and exhausted from her chat with Dumbledore.

Tom muttered the password as they reached their common room, not bothering to respond to Hermione.

Hermione repeated his name one more time before he disappeared into his bedroom. He rounded on her instantly, his gray eyes burning. "I have shared more than I care to admit right now with you, in addition to the myriad facts you mysteriously know about me. But I don't know you. You're not from Beauxbatons. You have much more information than you should. All I know is that you're a muggle-born witch named Hermione. I don't even know if that's true and I don't know your last name."

"I am a muggle-born and was very frustrated that Professor Dumbledore insisted that I hide that now. I grew up in England with muggle parents. They were dentists. What I told you about their memories is true." Tom continued to stare at her expectantly, the fire in his eyes unrelenting. His arms were crossed tightly, forming a sharp wrinkle in his usually perfect white button-up. Otherwise, he was all patience, not opening his mouth even slightly or providing any indication he would respond. Hermione knew that he wanted more information, but she was still scared to tell him that she came from the future. How would he react, knowing the depth of her deceit? Worse, would he want to emulate his future self, committing to his path? One thing Hermione did know, though, was that the future she knew was already in shambles.

"And my last name is Granger, which is something that not even Professor Dumbledore knows." As Hermione said the words, she wanted to pull them back, rip them from the air before they reached Tom's ears. But that was impossible, of course.

"Granger." He pronounced her name slowly, as though testing out how it sounded on his tongue. There was something intoxicating about hearing him say it; Hermione hadn't heard her name spoken aloud in almost four months. She had almost completely slipped into being a Prewett, no longer pausing when a professor called her name to remind herself that it was her. The reaction was automatic and swift, and she hadn't realized until this moment that she missed being a Granger.

Hermione nodded. "Granger." She repeated with a bit more force.

Tom closed the distance between them, pulling her close enough that she could feel his chest as his lungs expanded and contracted and his steadily increasing heartbeat, not quite matching her own. "Hermione Granger," he whispered in her ear, his tone no longer unsure, but holding all the confidence bordering on cockiness that she was used to from him. She wanted to be irritated with him, but it was comforting, if anything. He nibbled on her earlobe and trailed kisses to her mouth before slipping his tongue inside of her stubbornly closed mouth. "You will tell me everything eventually," he said as he pulled away. It wasn't a question, so Hermione didn't bother answering. It was becoming easier and easier to forget that she had the entire world on her shoulders.

* * *

The following morning, Hermione sat around the common room with the women spearheading various tasks for the upcoming ball. Despite her best efforts to avoid the group, Hermione decided it would not be quite so odious if she only met with those in charge of each sector. Besides, as unpleasant and unfair as her duties were, Hermione couldn't stand the thought of not fulfilling her responsibilities. That's how she found herself on a snowy Sunday morning talking to Dorea Black, Pomona Sprout, and a giggly Gryffindor girl named Hazel Smith.

"Is Riddle in his room?" Hazel whispered after Hermione called the start of the meeting.

"No, he's at the library, but considering that I am in charge of the ball, his absence shouldn't be a problem."

Hazel laughed much louder than her whisper. "I didn't want to talk to him; I wanted to talk about him. I can't believe you're dating him. I want to know everything." Hazel's voice had grown in volume, as well, but she was still whispering. The result was something between a shout and a whisper.

"It just sort of happened, but I think we should get back to this meeting, anyway."

Hazel rolled her eyes dramatically. "This isn't going to take long. You're just checking up on us. Besides, I bet Pomona and Black want to hear about this, too."

Pomona laughed and nodded good-naturedly, and Dorea reluctantly followed with a shrug and a twitch.

"Well, I meant it. There's not much to tell," Hermione said uncomfortably. Although she had overheard several of the tell-us-everything type conversations regarding relationships, she had rarely been involved in them and certainly never been the subject of interest. She went from having a secret relationship to being a pariah for said secret relationship, but of course now that she was dating a murderer people wanted details.

"Is he a good kisser?" Hazel asked, not letting up.

"The best," Hermione relented. What could it hurt? The four of them chatted for a while about Tom, and eventually Hazel's boyfriend, who Hermione learned was a Weasley. Hazel teased Dorea a bit about Charlus, but Dorea barely responded so the jittery blonde moved on quickly. The chat felt like a strange kind of normal, as though Hermione was stepping into someone else's life for a moment. But somehow, it was hers. Sometimes it was jarring to think about how much things had changed in the last few months.

Eventually, they got around to ironing out details of the ball, leaving Hermione sitting alone, sprawled out on the huge floor of the magically expanded common room, tasting salt as silent tears ran slowly down her face. She wasn't feeling sad, necessarily, but overwhelmed.

Overwhelmed from defending Tom to Dumbledore, telling Tom her last name, and talking about Tom as though he were a normal, sweet teenage boy who was going to sweep her off her feet. It was as though he had crawled up inside of her mind one night as she slept and now she couldn't shake him off. She thought about him too often, but didn't think about the future enough. There was no feasible future that enticed her, that she could want. She couldn't be with him while he became Voldemort, but what other alternative was there? She was just one person, after all, and he was the one person who would ruin the world. Hermione was hesitant to even hope that his fate could be malleable.


	17. Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your continuing support, whether it's through kudos or comments. You all are seriously keeping me motivated right now. :)

Avery was saying something, but Tom diligently ignored him, nodding occasionally but not bothering to hide his impatience as Avery rummaged through his disorganized wardrobe.

"Here—no, hold on." Tom rolled his eyes, making a show of tapping his shoe on the cold floor of the dormitory. "Okay, here it is." Avery pulled out a large pouch emblazoned with his family crest. After rummaging through, Avery pulled out a generous handful of galleons and handed them over to Tom without counting.

"This will do," Tom replied with a slight sneer. The first time he had borrowed money from his followers, he asked Malfoy for money that he needed to complete certain activities over the summer. Malfoy gave him the requisite amount without question, naturally, but never so flippantly as Avery.

"Glad to be of service, my Lord," Avery said, turning to him for a moment before continuing to dig through his wardrobe, apparently looking for something else. Tom opened his mouth in goodbye, but changed his mind and left Avery half-buried in clothes and spellbooks. Just looking at the clutter gave Tom anxiety; he was glad to be rid of shared accommodations.

As he descended the stairway from his followers' dormitory, he caught a shock of long blond hair as the person it belonged to hurried out of the common room. Black. Although Tom wasn't planning on confronting the irritating witch today, it seemed wasteful to let the opportunity slide by. He cast a silencing charm on his shoes before leaving the dormitory, and picked up his pace as he followed the reverberating of echoed footsteps. Tom pulled out his wand, gripping it tightly. It had been too long since he had had a good chase.

"Black! Is that you?" Tom called out casually once they were about halfway between the Slytherin common room and the entrance hall. It was after hours, so they were unlikely to be interrupted. Apparently Black had come to the same conclusion, as her body shook slightly as she turned around to face him. She didn't look afraid otherwise, but came up short on looking unaffected. She overcompensated; her eyes weren't wide with fear, but they were too narrowed to match her normal demeanor. Tom could see clearly as she felt for her wand inside of her robes, trying to be discrete.  _Grab your wand if you want; it won't help._

"Riddle. What are you doing out at this hour?"

"I could ask you the same thing." Black chuckled nervously. "So? What are you doing out here in this hour, Black? You know it can be dangerous to walk at night by yourself."

"Couldn't sleep," she mumbled.

"It's not that late."

"Well, maybe that's why I couldn't sleep." She attempted a smile, a pathetic one that didn't reach her cheeks, let alone her eyes. "Anyway, I should get back."

"But Black, it's been ages." Tom drawled out the last word in a very Malfoy fashion.

"I suppose it has. But it's late. Let's catch up another time," Black replied abruptly, her breathing shallow.

"Now works well for me," Tom said, wordlessly and wandlessly casting the Body Bind Curse. "I would like to know why you're suddenly so terrified of Hermione and me." Tom released the Curse only on her face. It was a signature at this point; facial cues were so helpful that it seemed silly to suppress them.

"Terrified? Of Prewett?"

Tom shook his head. "Me, then?"

"I'm just… intimidated by you, Riddle. I've always had a bit of a crush, really."

Tom let out a laugh, but there was no mirth in it. "Salazar, Black, do you know think I'm a giggling schoolboy? Flattery will get you nowhere with me. I am not interested in your interest, merely your knowledge. Tell me what you know and how you know."

"I wasn't—I don't know anything, Riddle."

_"Crucio."_ Tom cast it aloud for two reasons: so that Black could feel the anguish of anticipation and because, in his experience, it seemed to have greater effect when spoken. "I'll let you think about that, Black. I can assure you that this will not be our last meeting." With that, Tom walked away, removing Black's body bind but otherwise not looking back. He had learned last year that it was better not to leave trails behind him.

* * *

Dorea sat in the hallway just around the corner from the common room, an absolute wreck. She was not the type of person who cried easily, but sobs had wracked her body for what felt like hours. Dorea didn't have a death wish: she had seen firsthand the destruction that Riddle could cause, and she wanted to stay as far away as possible. She had tried to creep back to the common room after their confrontation, but simply could not make it all the way and face her roommate, Rosier.

She felt frozen; she might have stayed there all night had she not heard footsteps. Collecting herself, she muttered a quick spell that her mother had taught her as a girl to clean up her face and reduce the puffiness in her eyes. Luckily, the tears were no longer free-flowing. She picked herself up the floor and made out that she was walking toward the common room, away from the chatter behind her. A spell was one thing, but she would rather avoid society entirely.

"Dorea! Is that you?" It was Lestrange.

Dorea turned around slightly on her heel, intentionally holding herself stiffly. "What do you want, Lestrange? I don't have the patience for you." Dorea said it in a huffier voice than normal, but if he noticed, he didn't react. When she turned around, she noticed Abraxas was with him but didn't greet him. Abraxas was practically as bad as her mother when it came to creating waterworks, and she really didn't want to deal with him in this state.

"Will you leave us for a moment, Lestrange?" So much for that. Clearly Abraxas had noticed her emotional state, even though Lestrange remained entirely oblivious.

"Of course, mate," Lestrange responded, winking in an exaggerated fashion.

When they had the hall to themselves, Abraxas anxiously asked her what happened.

"It was… Riddle."

"Riddle?"

"He cornered me."

Abraxas's normally tan face instantly drained of color. "About what?"

"He said that he noticed I had been scared of him and Hermione. And I've been so careful—I'm so sorry."

"You're putting both of us in danger." His normally bright blue eyes were harsh, and not just because of the dark shadows cast by their dim surroundings.

"Abraxas, I've not done anything but try to help." Dorea tried to inject an indignant tone into her voice, but she secretly did feel awful about how her interaction with Tom went, knowing that she had just put Abraxas in deeper jeopardy. The alternative, though—who would take care of Abraxas at the rate things have been going for him?

"I think you've done enough, Dorea."

"Abraxas, what about things with my aunt? Did that help?"

Abraxas half-shrugged. "I got what I needed."

"So why are you getting so upset off of one mistake? I wasn't prepared—"

"Look, I broke things off for a reason, and I'm tired of you hanging around." Dorea had the distinct feeling that she had just walked into a very cold room, and felt her natural inclination to anger building up inside of her, but tried to push it away.

"Abraxas, I'm not  _hanging around_." Despite her best efforts, the last two words came through gritted teeth and with her chin raised at least half a foot higher in the air. "I am taking care of you, and you're damn lucky because what would you do without me?"

Abraxas shook his head slowly and angrily, shrugging and walking away. Dorea stood there, waiting for him to turn around to finish their conversation, but he just kept walking. "Abraxas! I'm not going to follow you." He just walked faster, leaving her in the hallway alone. She stood there for a few minutes, shaking like a leaf, before wiping her tears away and walking back to the common room, feeling like she was fourteen years old again. Not for the first time, she wished she could access the Gryffindor boys' dorms to see Charlus. But she would just have to take care of herself.

* * *

Hermione sat in the common room, curled up with a book and her cat, serene as she had found a rare moment to do some recreational reading. It was a nice change; although she loved spending time with Tom and her friends, between them and her schoolwork Hermione rarely had a moment to herself.

As Tom walked through the portrait hole, though, Hermione was reminded how little she minded. Tom broke out into a rare smile as they made eye contact. "You seem like you're in a good mood tonight," she commented as he sat down next to her, tracing patterns on her thigh.

"It's been a good night."

"What have you been up to?"

"Just a couple of things I needed to take care of." Hermione raised her left eyebrow but didn't comment. "Sometimes it feels good to be productive."

"That's true," Hermione responded, not sure she wanted to know what Tom's version of being productive is.

"I think I'm finally done with the research project I've been working on for Professor Slughorn," Tom elaborated, nodding but looking far away.

"I didn't know you were working on a project for Professor Slughorn." Hermione felt a pang of jealousy, which was silly; Slughorn had known Tom for years, and had only just met her. Of course he wouldn't give a project to her. Regardless, she could feel the sting. Sometimes she missed being the star student of Hogwarts; it was silly, really, but she couldn't help it.

Tom dove into a description of the project he was working on; Hermione felt a slight chill run through her as she realized that he was discussing the very early phases of Veritaserum. Although she knew the final touches were not finished until three years later, it made sense that such a complex and powerful potion would take several years to perfect. And although she was unaware Tom had a hand in it, it was somehow unsurprising in retrospect. Unfortunately, it was not comforting to know that her clever boyfriend had access to early attempts at the powerful potion. Although it seemed she was safe from Legilimency, there was another path to her secrets that she hadn't even considered, foolishly feeling safe until the potion would first be officially used in 1948.

"So… what will it be used for?" Hermione asked tentatively.

"I'm not sure what you mean. The possibilities are endless." Tom extended the final word, his expression changing momentarily, as though he could taste the secrets spilling.

"Yes. But what would its purpose be? It seems dangerous."

Tom shrugged. "Discovery is dangerous, but that doesn't mean it's not worthwhile. I know you don't fault research, Hermione." He studied her for a moment before a smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. "You're worried I'm going to use it on you."

Hermione scoffed ineffectually. "I am not. I would hope that you would respect me more than that."

Tom shook his head slightly, his gray eyes piercing in a way that made her feel simultaneously uncomfortable and aroused. "Don't worry, Hermione. I am much closer to mastering Legilimency than perfecting the potion."  _Comforting. Really comforting._ "Besides, I wouldn't risk the unknown side effects on you." Tom was kissing her in between words, his hands slightly higher than they should have been on her thighs now. "I would much rather explore your mind myself than with a potion." His hands brushed underneath her skirt pleats. "That would be so unnecessarily impersonal. I don't want you in some trancelike state," Tom continued, wordlessly pushing her down horizontally on the couch, tracing his hand down her middle from the indentation between her collarbones and ending at her waistline of her skirt. "I want to take my time and unravel all of your secrets, one at a time."

The last four words were spoken very slowly as Tom pulled off her tights, inch by inch. Hermione felt incredibly torn between the fleeting anxiety of allowing Tom access to her secrets and the desire that was clouding those thoughts. Maybe not too torn. Tom's lips crashed into hers again, and she couldn't help but entrap him with her newly freed legs, pushing him as close to her as possible. They stayed like that for a while, forgetting the world around them in passionate kisses and a tight embrace. For the first time, they slept on the couch together, though it was much too small for one person. Hermione woke up in the middle of the night to find herself pressed to Tom's chest, Crookshanks at her feet. She nuzzled her head deeper into his chest and quickly fell back to sleep.


	18. Bronze and Gold, Pt. 1

With a skip in her step, Hermione made her way down to the Great Hall. It was four hours until the Ball she had theoretically organized, and she was checking in to make sure that everything was in order before heading upstairs to get ready. Despite her protests, Hermione found herself looking forward to the ball. A lot had changed since that September day when she had found out about her rampantly sexist task (though her attitude on that aspect had stayed the same), and she couldn't help that when she thought about dancing with Tom her heartbeat became a bit less regular or how a smile tugged at the corners of her stubborn mouth.

As she entered the Great Hall to survey the surroundings and account for everyone present, she couldn't conceal a small sigh. Pomona and Hazel were there for food and music, respectively, but the usual Slytherin ice princess was replaced by an even more irritating member of the house: Mildred.

Hermione let her cheery demeanor slip into her typical businesslike attitude for prefect duties. "Hazel, Pomona, Bulstrode. What happened to Dorea?"

"Well, Dorea asked if Eileen or I could cover for this rather rude checkup of yours and I jumped at the opportunity."

"I will not apologize for ensuring that everything runs smoothly tonight. Why couldn't Dorea make it?"

"Something happened with her dress and she needed time to fix it. Since I don't have to get ready, I thought I could fill in." Mildred said the last sentence with venom followed by a sickly-sweet sing-song voice.

"Well, I don't see how it's my problem you don't have a date, but—" Hermione stopped midsentence because of the very loud scoff that came from Mildred's direction and the fierce head shake Hermione caught from Hazel that appeared to be some sort of warning.

"Silly girl," Mildred said in a dangerous voice, "Tom doesn't tell you much, does he? I have been his date to the Ball for the last two years."

"I don't know why I should be offended that Tom hasn't told me when you clearly just weren't worth his notice," The words rolled out of Hermione's mouth and despite her deep dislike of Mildred, she couldn't help but feel awful after they did. Mildred's eyes narrowed, but they were also watering.

"The decorations look sufficient," Hermione continued. (They looked more than sufficient, but Hermione was trying to mercifully dismiss Mildred quickly). "Unless you need anything from me, you can go now."

"I don't need anything from you," Mildred said with her chin held high as she quickly exited the room. Hermione let out a little breath she didn't know she was holding.

"Sorry about that," Hermione muttered. "We don't really get on."

Pomona's eyes were wide and Hazel's were knowing. "She's the worst, honestly," Hazel drawled. "And don't let her get to you. Tom always looked a little queasy around her. I think he did it as a favor. You're seriously the first girl he's actually dated. He just had to take someone to the ball and she follows him around, so I guess she was an easy choice."

"Thanks, Hazel. I'm not offended, really," Hermione said quietly, wanting to change the subject in an attempt to push away the little knot of guilt that had formed in her stomach, which Hazel was only exacerbating. "The decorations really do look wonderful," Hermione said to herself more than anyone else. Although the Slytherins could not restrain themselves from making it green, the color scheme was a minty green with white trim, giving the room an ethereal look. The enchanted ceiling currently blended with the mint as the sky was a clear blue day, but Hermione was confident it would look even lovelier against an inky black sky.

"They really do," Pomona said appreciatively. The three women talked about the rest of the plans, with Hazel interjecting occasionally with attempted reassurance. All in all, Hermione was happy to excuse herself to get ready, as though she needed three and a half hours to put clothes and make-up on. Perhaps it was the state of her hair, but neither witch questioned it.

* * *

A few hours later, and Hermione was surveying herself in the full-length mirror, fixing a stray curl here and there, but mostly taking the ten minutes before meeting Tom in the common room to reflect. It felt surreal to be dressing for a ball; the last she had attended had been four years ago, although it felt like someone else's life when she looked back at it now. She still had an absurd crush on Ron and he spoke to her in those days. Moreover, Harry was alive and Tom—well, Voldemort—wasn't even back yet. And since he had come back, her whole life had revolved around him. Defeating him and now… it was still about him, but in a very different way.

The night of the Yule Ball many years ago had been the first time Hermione felt pretty, but after that, appearances had been the last thing on her mind. All her energy had been channeled into righting the universe somehow. And now things had come full circle because in this strange limbo fifty-one years before she had walked out onto the dancefloor with a Quidditch star, she felt truly beautiful, even more than she had that night.

Although Lyra could not have known when she chose the dress, the bronze was perfect. It felt as though Hermione was embracing her new identity and place in this time, as a Ravenclaw and as a woman. All of Hermione's Gryffindor clothing had been destroyed by battle after battle, until a year ago when she only had her Gryffindor scarf left. When she first packed to embark on her impossible mission, Hermione yearned for her scarf, though she couldn't bring herself to regret giving it to Draco. And being back in this time, Hermione still looked at the carefree Gryffindor groups with longing. But she would never be that carefree girl again; and was she ever really that carefree in the first place?

Sometimes Hermione wondered what had happened to her scarf. Such trains of thought had popped up frequently in the early weeks of fall, but lately she no longer had to fight to suppress them. Now, she could almost form a smile when she thought of Narcissa coming across a red and gold scarf. Almost.

Hermione thought idly about what had brought on this melancholy, but it was simple, really. The whole year had been a repeating of sorts: of her seventh year, at minimum, a reclaiming of the serene, education-oriented year it could have been. But now another winter ball, another opening dance with the most coveted date. It was hard not to think about what wasn't there: Harry. The person that Hermione could only let herself think about in the wee hours of the morning, when she had a fleeting recollection of a dream or nightmare starring her old friend, and would let herself feel the weight of his accusations on her.

"Hermione?" Tom's velvety voice broke her reverie. Hermione did a quick charm to hide the evidence of a stray tear and smoothed out her dress in more of a manifestation of nervousness than anything else. Hermione opened the door and broke out into a dreamy smile.

Although Hermione had expected black or emerald dress robes, Tom wore steel gray robes that brought out the darker flecks in his eyes. His hair was the same as always, mostly smoothed into place except for her favorite stray curl that fell over the left side of his forehead. His pale skin was illuminated in the fleeting light streaming in from outside, almost translucent against the dark hair that framed it.

"You look really nice," Hermione managed, still admiring her date, trying (and mostly succeeding) to be in this moment.

"Same to you," Tom remarked quietly, but there was more warmth in his eyes than usual. He extended an arm, which she gratefully threaded her own through as they walked slowly and quietly toward the Great Hall.

"I like the dress."

"We both almost went with a house color—you went for a more muted look."

"I prefer subtlety."

"I bet you do." Hermione smiled, adding, "you like nice, too."

"You already said that," Tom commented with a soft smile on his face.

"Well, you do," Hermione replied awkwardly, running her hand nervously through her hair. She shouldn't be nervous; she was with Tom, the person she spent an inordinate amount of time with. But it was something about the atmosphere and the fact that she was about to be pulled forcefully out of her comfort zone that brought on the nerves. It might also have something to do with the unabashed way Tom was sizing her up.

As they approached the entrance to the ball, Hermione noticed Professor Dippet standing outside. "Excellent, you're both here."

"Yes, Professor," Hermione and Tom both said at once. Tom glanced at her with slightly narrowed eyes before turning back to the headmaster.

"Good, good, I trust you are aware, Ms. Prewett, that you and Mr. Riddle will open the dance?"

"Yes, I had heard," Hermione responded, adding in her head:  _through sheer chance, thank you for informing me._

"Excellent. Other couples will start to join you fairly quickly, but please finish the first dance together before going your separate ways."

Hermione didn't know how to respond to that, as she didn't want to bother the headmaster with something so trivial as her private life, so she just responded with, "we understand, Professor."

Tom's pressure on her hand increased, pinching the bones underneath her knuckles. Hermione kept her smile plastered on as she made a feeble attempt to subtly wrest her hand free, which Tom responded to by turning discomfort into dull pain.

Professor Dippet nodded a few times, looking out into the distance, and then mumbled something Hermione couldn't hear. "Excellent, excellent," he said, nodding again. "I shall see both of you inside then."

"Thank you for checking in with us, Professor," Hermione called after him.

And, after there was enough distance between the two of them, Hermione hissed, "What are you doing, Tom? You're hurting me."

_"We understand?"_

"Are you serious, Tom? Would you like to be apprise our headmaster with the details of our relationship?"

"Salazar, Hermione, it wouldn't take twelve feet of parchment," he seethed as he flung her hand away. "A simple correction would have sufficed."

"Why do you care if Professor Dippet knows we are a couple?"

"What I care about is the fact that you impliedly denied it."

"Tom, I really don't know why you're upset. Everyone knows we are dating, except Professor Dippet apparently. I don't know how it's even possible someone in this school does not know considering how public we are about our relationship."

"You are mine. I care that everyone knows it." Tom possessively placed a hand on the small of her back as he spoke and traced the low neckline of her top with his other hand.

"Tom…"

Tom pulled away from her as though she were on fire. Before she could respond to his antics, she heard a deep, booming laugh from behind her and sighed. Slughorn.

"Ms. Prewett, Mr. Riddle, there's enough time for that later," Slughorn gently scolded, a sloppy grin on his round face as he pushed the pair into the ballroom.

"Sorry, Professor Slughorn," Hermione mumbled. The potions professor was proudly sporting his house colors with dark green robes with a shiny silver "H.S." emblazoned on the left side of his chest that reminded Hermione of old-fashioned muggle pajamas. She let the enthusiastic professor lead them into the Great Hall, and would have frozen if Tom's hand weren't gently pushing her forward.

Every eye was on her and she felt déjà vu wash over like a wave. Tom held out his hand and she took it gingerly. Once they walked to the center of the floor, the band began churning out a painfully slow song and Hermione tried to suppress her blush, but she could feel the heat radiating off her cheeks. She placed one side of her burning face on Tom's chest and let him glide them across the dancefloor. "I don't think I've ever seen you blush," Tom whispered as other couples started to trickle in.

"Really? I blush all the time," Hermione said, surprised.

"No. You don't," Tom said matter-of-factly.

"Hmm," Hermione hummed as she let herself mold into Tom. She felt his hand drift lower on her dress than she would have liked in public, but she shrugged it off. She didn't want to argue now; she wanted to enjoy her night.


	19. Bronze and Gold, Pt. 2

Hermione and Tom danced for what felt like hours before she reluctantly separated to run to the restroom. Lyra was there, leaning against a stall in her aquatic glory having a solemn chat with Moaning Myrtle.

"Myrtle!" Hermione exclaimed, a bit startled. As far as she had heard, Myrtle had been banished from school by the Ministry until Olive completed school. Furthermore, seeing the basilisk's victim was not her ideal way of spending time while on a date with her murderer.

"How do you know my name?" Myrtle demanded. She hadn't changed a wink in fifty years; Hermione had always attributed her attitude to years living as a ghost, but apparently she had always been snippety, at least in death.

"I heard about a girl named Myrtle murdered in here. I figured it was a solid guess. I'm Hermione."

"I can't exactly shake hands. I'm a ghost. Anyway, you're interrupting."

"That's quite rude," Lyra said in a sing-song voice.

"Sorry, Lyra."

"I was talking to Myrtle."

"Oh. How is your night, Lyra?"

"It's the same as ever."

"Lyra was just complaining about her date," Myrtle said in a strangely triumphant voice.

"Todd is lovely, but I would like to dance at one of these balls."

"He didn't dance with you once?" Lyra shook her head. She seemed melancholy, which didn't match her.

"I can offer up my date." Lyra laughed. "Just for a dance, of course."

"Who is your date?" Myrtle asked, hanging over the stall like a ragdoll.

"Tom Riddle." Is it bad that Hermione took a bit of delight in the squeal of jealousy from the ghost?

After much gushing from Myrtle, Lyra and Hermione headed back to Ball together, arms linked. Hermione looked all over for Todd, but he was nowhere to be seen. Slightly irritated at her awkward friend, she didn't ask Lyra about his absence. Her date, on the other hand, was engrossed in a conversation with Slughorn. He turned and smiled at Hermione, but she waved him off, and danced with Lyra herself. Apparently this was quite strange fifty-five years in the past, but they didn't let that stop them as a fast song came from the band, laughing and spinning together.

* * *

The rest of the night was a blur as Hermione danced with her date. They clung to each other the entire time, save for her brief departure with Lyra. Unlike in her time, there were few upbeat tracks, and she found herself enjoying the slow songs once they weren't the only two people on the dancefloor.

After a night of what felt like floating, they ended up back in the common room, kissing passionately before Tom pulled her into his room for the first time. Before she could fully take in the dark stone surroundings, he had knocked her into the wall so fiercely that it shook the dresser next to them, leaving some of the drawers ajar. There was nothing restrained about their kisses; she was pinned against the wall and there was so much urgency that their teeth knocked into each other a few times before they had made it to the bed. Tom ran his hands along the entirety of her skintight dress before letting out a frustrated sigh.

"How does this come off?" Tom finally asked, flabbergasted.

Hermione couldn't help but laugh. "With magic."

Tom groaned and wordlessly vanished the bronze dress. Hermione felt a chill run down her as the fabric was taken away, but it was quickly fixed as the space between her and Tom vanished as well. Tom was aggressively kissing her neck, leaving trails of hot, wet kisses, making her shiver from the disappearing warmth as he trailed down her neck and toward the edge of her white lace bra. Her left collarbone throbbed from his voracious biting.

Wrapped up in Tom and his kisses, she had completely forgotten what the rest of him was doing until she felt one of his long digits under the white cotton of her underwear. As he began to gently massage her, she let out a moan as his tongue darted under her bra. Wordlessly, she vanished it along with Tom's robes. Tom responded with a low chuckle before quickening his pace and flicking his tongue against her left nipple. As Hermione writhed under his touch, she caught something out of the corner of her eye: a flicker of gold. It was sitting in the drawer they had inadvertently knocked open. She tried to ignore it and focus on Tom but to no avail. She craned her neck to get a better look, and her suspicions were confirmed as she saw the outline of a badger. Memories flashed through her head in quick succession and she could feel her heartrate as it went from fast to erratic. Hermione bolted up, adjusting her underwear that could have barely been considered on.

"Hermione," Tom said with a breathless whine as he pushed back his dark hair. Hermione hesitated at the door for a second, caught between her moral compass and how ridiculously sexy Tom looked at that moment. His dark hair was mussed, the skin on his neck was red with a newly formed hickey she had accidentally given him, and his bottom lip was slightly swollen, making his pout look even more pronounced.

"I have to go, Tom."

"Go where? Your room is right across the hall." His words tumbled out slowly as he regained his focus. By the time he finished his sentence, she had left and quickly crossed the common room before sinking down into her own carpet. He didn't follow her, which was a relief. She didn't know if she had the requisite self-control to say no again.

Hermione threw on her tattered brown robe and wrapped herself in an old quilt her mother had made her long before she knew she was a witch. She crawled underneath the bed and pulled out all the books on Horcruxes she had bought so long ago on her date with Abraxas. She had stowed them away, telling herself that they could wait until later.

Hermione laughed bitterly.  _Later. What a joke._ Tom wasn't supposed to have the cup for ages. But she knew she had changed things; why was she so arrogant to believe that it would be for the better? As she looked at the titles and tried to re-invigorate her sense of determination that she had when she bought them, she found it lacking.  _Dumbledore sent you here for a reason_ , Hermione told herself as she stroked the spine of  _Dark Soule Magick_. As she opened the dusty volume, a lone tear fell on the yellowed pages. Hermione just stared at the title page, frozen.  _Why are you doing this to your soul, Tom? A soul that I…_

Hermione tried to comfort herself with the thought that it likely wasn't a Horcrux—yet. If it were, it would be better protected than shoved in a drawer. She laughed, though, as she tried to compare it to the negative energy she had felt radiating off the locket when she held it in her hands. As though she could feel it now; the soul was Tom's, and he hardly made her feel dark and gloomy. His ring molded to him perfectly; there was no extra evil a Horcrux brings. It was just Tom. Her Tom.

Hermione fell asleep thinking of Horcruxes and of Tom, having an odd dream where she was seventeen years old again, holding the locket in her hands, but instead of destroying it, she hugged it tight to her chest because it felt like Tom.

* * *

Hermione didn't know how long she slept for, but when she woke, it was still dark out. She slipped on a pair of bunny slippers that were falling apart; one bunny's head was nearly detached from the whole. She also grabbed Crookshanks for support; she had a hunch that Tom was waiting on the other side of the door, and knew that this would not be a fun conversation.

Tom was sprawled on the couch, wearing wool checkered slacks and a white button down that was wrinkled as his knitted forehead. "Good morning, Hermione." His tone was crisp, formal, and decidedly distant. She tried not to let it hurt.

"May I sit?"

"It's your couch, too." Tom didn't look up as she sat down, and didn't reach to move his reading glasses, turning his page in a move that signaled he was not going to speak first.

"I'm sorry." Her voice was soft and small.

"For what?" He still didn't look up, but Hermione heard his voice waver slightly.

"For leaving."

"Why?"

"Well, I know it was bad timing."

"Not why are you sorry; why did you leave?" The glasses were off, fixed on his head like a crown. His gray eyes bore into hers, and she could see them searching her, assessing the veracity of her words.

Hermione had decided to tell a half-truth. It was all she could do because she couldn't talk about the Cup, or Horcruxes, or her mission. And the sad thing was, it wasn't just about dooming the future. If Tom asked, "so what?, or if he asked her if she could live with him making more Horcruxes, she didn't know her answer. And that's what was really bothering her.

"It's just that I haven't had sex with anyone since my boyfriend died." It was half-true; she had pushed thoughts of Draco to the back of her head fairly effectively, but sometimes they popped up out of nowhere when something seemingly insignificant brought his memory crashing back like a wave, reminding her that he had only been cold three and a half months. That she had kissed him three and a half months ago. Loved him three and a half months ago. And Tom had effectively killed him. Not yet, but eventually.

That was not what Tom had expected, clearly. He looked a bit dumbfounded, which didn't fit with the certainty his face normally carried. "Oh."

"What is it?" Hermione asked.

"I didn't realize you had had sex before. I kind of assumed you left because it was your first time or something." The last few words ran together to almost constitute a mumble, but not quite.

Now it was Hermione's turn to say, "oh."

"What happened to your boyfriend?" Tom said the term like she had imagined he would have pronounced Mudblood.

"He died. Grindewald's followers."  _Did that qualify as half true?_

"You're lying."  _Apparently not._

"Yes. I can't say who killed him, but he was murdered."

"Were you there?"

"No. Dumbledore told me." A shock of surprise erupted in those pretty gray orbs. She had mentioned the detail as a gesture of peace, an attempt to give him as much of the truth as she could muster right now. She could see the wheels turning in his head and wondered if it had been the right move.

"How long were you together?"

Hermione had expected to talk about this during some cozy late-night conversation bundled up in his arms, not in the harsh light of Tom's wand after a mess of a night during an interrogation. But things never seemed to turn out quite right with Tom. Hermione sighed. "Almost two years."

"So it was serious."

"Yes."

"Do you think you would still be together if he were alive?"

"Yes." Hermione could see the question he really wanted to ask from the slight twitch of his shoulders:  _Did you care about him more than me?_ But she didn't answer that question. The answer was clear, but she felt much too conflicted about her feelings for Tom to give it to him.

Tom nodded slightly. "It's strange you've never mentioned him."

Hermione shrugged. "How would I bring it up, exactly? Let me tell you about my dead boyfriend? It's not exactly a wonderful conversation-starter."

Tom scoffed at that, turning his head slightly to break eye contact. "I've told you plenty of things that aren't great  _conversation-starters_ , Hermione." His tone was borderline dangerous, but Hermione didn't let it deter her.

"I know," she said softly, reaching out to touch his arm.

He flinched and scooted away from her. It hurt. "You aren't telling me the whole reason why you ran away last night." It was a statement, not a question.

"You're getting better at Legilimency."

"I'll just keep getting better." He said it in a snobbish voice that she rarely heard from him, but it fit.

"I know."

"I can't be with someone who keeps so much from me; who can't even explain why she left me."

Hermione felt Tom testing her, prodding her, poking her, knowing that he would likely accept something less than everything; that he would probably accept something merely amounting to reassurance. But for the first time in months, she couldn't look away from the ring on his finger that glinted in the dim glow of the moonlight. And she couldn't keep putting off the future.

"I know," she whispered, staring determinedly at her feet, knowing that his pleading gray eyes could only lead to loss.

"So you choose your secrets over me?" His voice was smooth and viscous like molasses but she saw his toes curl and twitch as her eyes stayed trained to the floor.

"I wouldn't put it like that," Hermione said, trying to keep her voice steady, but doing much worse, as she heard it waver and shake and tried to ignore her heartbeat and suppress the violent shaking she felt underneath her left hand that was glued onto her ribcage.

"I would." Two simple words and she wanted to say three of them in quick succession because then she couldn't take it back, but she didn't.

Instead she said simply: "I thought you would."

"You know me well," Tom's words were filled with sadness and bitterness, and she could almost taste the metallic irony dripping from his words, insisting that she heard the unspoken conclusion:  _I don't know you well._

"Tom…"

"Let's finish this conversation when you're ready to tell me everything about you. Everything. Not just a name, even if it is a lovely one."

And Tom retreated into her room, leaving Hermione thinking:  _He thinks my name is lovely?_ And just like that, almost all her conviction left her at a throwaway comment from Tom, and Hermione knew what she had to do, as painful as it might be.


	20. Holiday

After a mind-numbingly simple riddle (seriously, how do Ravenclaws expect to keep anyone out?), Hermione opened the door to the sunny blue common room. Though she had been sorted into the house over three months ago, it was the first time she had visited in this time. Gryffindor common room had never been her favorite place, so she expected her new common room to be the same, but perhaps she should have come earlier; her greeting was warm. Almost everyone left behind for the holidays were fifth through seventh years, except for the younger students who were staying all through Christmas. Since the Ball had passed, older students were preparing for the afternoon train. Most were already packed, so several were huddled in the common room, bidding farewell to their dear friends.

"Have any of you seen Lyra?" Hermione interrupted a group of fifth-years. One of them nodded and gave directions to the seventh-year girls' dormitory.

The rooms were down a long hallway, filled with large bronze windows looking out over Hogwarts terrain. Hermione took in the views as she walked, stopping at the final door and attempting to knock, but the door swung right open as it had not been properly closed. The room was a test in opposites. It soon became clear that Olive and Lyra were the only female Ravenclaw seventh years, as the room had practically been split in half. All that was missing was a partition. Olive's side of the room was neat and orderly with few additions. There was a moving photo of two people who looked like they might have been Olive's parents and one of Olive and Almus kissing and grinning at each other. Lyra's side of the room was wholly unexpected. Hermione realized in that moment how much she had filled in Lyra's personality with Luna's; she had fully imagined Lyra's room would feel similarly eccentric. Instead, if it could have belonged to any of her old friends, it would have been Ron. The room was covered from ceiling to bed with Quidditch photos; whole teams, seekers, and posed pictures. There appeared to be no team affiliation, but more of a general admiration and collection of crazy dives, silly tricks, and the teams associated with such players.

"Wow," Hermione let out as she looked over the wall wide-eyed. "I had no idea you were so into Quidditch."

Lyra shrugged. "You never asked." Hermione nodded and put an awkward hand on Lyra's shoulder. The dark-haired girl pulled her into a tight hug. Hermione could feel tears welling up in her eyes. She was trying to push Tom out of her mind, but realizing that she had been an awful friend in addition to an awful girlfriend was a bit more than she could bear right now; and the fact that she was making it about herself again just made things worse.

"You want to come back with me for the holidays," Lyra stated matter-of-factly as they pulled apart.

"How did you know?"

"You're crying. Something happened with you and Tom."

"Lyra, I do consider you a good friend. I don't want you to feel like I'm just using you to get away from Tom, but saying that out loud, I guess I am. Merlin, I'm sorry." Hermione's words came out in a tumble, running together as tears streaked down her face quietly.

Lyra considered her quietly for a moment. "Hermione, I can tell something is going on with you beyond problems with Tom." Lyra surveyed her for a moment, her blue eyes briefly turning to piercing. "You're welcome to join me for the holidays, but only if you let me give you flying lessons."

Hermione imagined herself falling from a broom to her death, but tried to dismiss the thought. If she could face Voldemort, she could fly, couldn't she? And besides, she really owed Lyra one. Or twenty. "It's a deal."

"You better pack. Train's in two hours."

And just like that, her plans for the next three weeks had completely changed. She felt a quiet kind of conviction as she headed back to her quarters to prepare for the trip. Hermione felt genuinely excited to spend some time with Lyra, and even to leave the castle. Over the course of the last year and a half, Hermione had only spent a couple of hours away from the castle looking for… well, for the Cup.

Yet despite the promise of fresh air away from the Hogwarts grounds and time with her new friend, Hermione felt torn apart at the idea of leaving Tom. She knew she needed space, though, to think. As Hermione packed up most of her relatively few belongings for the second time that year, she paused as she reached under the bed, looking at her own personal collection of Horcrux books. After a moment of hesitation, she shoved them in her bag, as much to keep them away from Tom as to read. Although her room was heavily warded, who knows what would come about in three weeks if Tom set his mind to it. The thought gave her pause about her trip for a second, but she shoved it away just as she shoved away the last of her clothes into the magically expanded luggage. She wasn't sure what to bring, so she had essentially brought everything.

As Crookshanks pulled on Hermione's robes, Hermione realized she hadn't asked Lyra if she could bring her. _Hopefully it will be fine,_ Hermione thought as she scooped up the unruly ball of fur and left the confines of her room. Tentatively, she knocked on Tom's door. No response. "Tom!" No response. "Tom, may I speak to you just for a moment?" No response.

Hermione huffed and marched back to her room to scribble out a note, which she left on their coffee table. "Goodbye, Tom!" No response. "I'll miss you!" No response. Hermione gave up and made way to the Great Hall; she was late enough that she broke out into a bit of a run, but she made it on time.

"Lyra!" She called breathlessly.

"Hello. Did you bring a ball gown?"

"I have my Yule Ball dress and the dresses I wore to Slughorn's. Why?"

"For a ball." Lyra didn't expand and Hermione didn't ask as she followed her friend into the last carriage, which held Avery and Lestrange.

Both of their eyes widened briefly when they saw Hermione and then seemed determined not to acknowledge her.

"Hello Avery, Lestrange."

"Prewett," Lestrange nodded politely. "Lyra." Hermione's eyebrow shot up at the first-name basis, and Lyra didn't acknowledge it.

"Hello," she said simply. They sat in silence as the carriages approached the Hogwarts Express.

Hermione smiled at the sight.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Lyra asked.

"Yes, it is."

Lestrange and Avery jumped out as Avery shouted, "See you both next week!"

"Next week?" Hermione asked Lyra, laughing a bit.

"For the ball I mentioned," Lyra replied simply as she struggled to lift her large luggage onto the train. Suddenly, Hermione was feeling this was going to be a much more taxing holiday than she had anticipated.

* * *

"Legilimens!" Tom shouted, exhausted but pressing forward. It had been six hours since he found that insipid note Hermione left him and four and a half hours since he found Malfoy, the only one of his followers who had also stayed for the holiday as he was also the only one who shared his orphan status. Malfoy was on the floor again, looking like he was struggling for consciousness. "Fight back," Tom hissed.

"Yes, my Lord," Malfoy coughed out, sitting up but not trying to stand.

"Legilimens!" Tom easily pushed past Malfoy's meager attempt at a struggle but still could only access impressions and thoughts. All the books he had read on the topic told him that he should be able to view memories, but that had so far proved impossible. Tom shook his head at the increasingly fatalistic tone of Malfoy's immediate thoughts. "I'm not going to kill you, Malfoy, stop being so dramatic."

"Apologies, my Lord," Malfoy sputtered. He was on the floor again. Pathetic.

"Let's pick up tomorrow. Meet me here after breakfast." Tom heard Malfoy mutter something but ignored him; he had more pressing matters.

Tom charged toward the Head common room, quickly giving the password before being confronted with the letter again. When he first came across it, he lit a fire at the end of his wand, ready to burn it, before he remembered a potion that he had filed away in the recesses of his mind that this letter would be particularly useful for. The potion would take two weeks to brew, but he had already started the first stage earlier that day.  _How ironic that a letter of farewell may be what gives me access to your secrets, Hermione._

* * *

The train pulled into the station and Hermione felt a ripple of nostalgia run through her. As they stepped off the platform, a man who looked oddly familiar waved to Lyra, and the two of them headed toward him. As Hermione got closer, she realized who he looked like as she plastered on a smile on her face and shook his hand while pushing down the bile that rose in her throat. Lyra's father was the spitting image of Rodolphus Lestrange minus the crazed look that Hermione assumed the man had obtained from years in Azkaban.

"Hermione Prewett," Hermione heard herself say as seamlessly as if it were her own name.

"Henry Lovegood, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I'll have the house elves prepare your room when we get in. I apologize that it's not ready yet, it seems it's slipped Lyra's mind to inform me of your arrival." His voice was pleasant, but there was a slight edge to it at the lack of notice. Hermione was also especially irritated at his mention of his house elves when she noticed one was there, hiding behind his leg.

"Sir, that's my fault—"

"No need to cover for me, Hermione. I simply forgot."

"Lyra's always forgetting something," Henry remarked lightly as they made their way to the Leaky Cauldron. Hermione kept up with the small talk as the wheels turned in her mind. She knew Lyra couldn't be Luna's grandmother because witches seemed to always take wizards' names, but she never considered that Lyra might be Rodolphus Lestrange's mother. It was a horrifying thought, but the more she looked at Henry (or tried not to), she couldn't push it out of her head, or Lyra and Lestrange's odd interaction earlier.

The Lovegood home reminded Hermione of an extravagant Muggle one more than anything else. She had never been to any wizard's home other than the Weasley's and Sirius's, though, so perhaps this was just how most pureblood wizards lived. A house elf named Archie showed Hermione to her room, which reminded her more of the hotel suite she had stayed at with her parents in Germany than any room Hermione had ever lived in. Hermione initially insisted on packing herself, but desisted when Archie started to hurt himself. Hermione watched uncomfortably as Archie unpacked her clothes.

When he was finished, Hermione asked him to lead her to Lyra's room, and he perked up immediately upon being given a task, then solemnly insisting he must ask "Ms. Lovegood" first. Five minutes later, Hermione was sitting on a mauve couch in a room that looked like her grandmother's tea room, but it was Lyra's room. "It doesn't exactly feel like… you."

"I didn't decorate it."

"Your house is beautiful," Hermione remarked quickly, not wanting to offend Lyra after she had graciously allowed Hermione to insert herself at the last minute.

"It's not mine." Lyra looked thoughtful, but not upset. Lyra was draped horizontally on the opposite couch, staring up at the ceiling that was the only personal touch to the room. Although it the middle of the day, the ceiling was an inky black with moving constellations.

"Can I ask you something, Lyra?"

"You may ask something else, yes."

"Is something going on between you and Lestrange?"

"We've been betrothed since we were six."

"You hadn't mentioned it."

"That's because it's not happening."

"He seems nice enough," Hermione offered, mostly because she knew all too well the falsity of Lyra's statement.

"No, he doesn't."

"No, he doesn't," Hermione echoed, conceding.

"What's happening between you and Tom?" Although Lyra tried to keep her tone light, the attempt to change the subject was clear. Perhaps the fact that Hermione knew little about her friend was not only her fault.

"He's frustrated with me. I haven't been very honest with him."

"Why not?"

"I'm afraid of how he'll react. I'm afraid of what he'll do."

"You're obviously going to tell him if he wants to know. Why put it off?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you're in love with him." Lyra had said it in the tone someone would use to describe the weather, and Hermione hadn't even been able to admit that to herself.

"What makes you say that?"

"Hermione, I've never seen two people so obviously in love as the two of you." Her tone was slightly annoyed, but also amused.

"So you think he's in love with me, too?"

"So you are in love with him."

"It's harder than it sounds," Hermione insisted as she tried to imagine the conversation and came up short.

"Everything always is."

"And it's not just about me. There are other people involved and I'm worried that sharing this… information might harm them." Other people being the entire wizarding world.

"What's the alternative?"

"Distancing myself from Tom?"

"Real alternatives."

"I guess I don't have any other than that one."

"So, none."

"Maybe," Hermione admitted.

"None," Lyra repeated as she sat up and sipped her tea. It all seemed so simple, discussing it in Lyra's lavish sitting room. But things were much easier said than done.

* * *

The days at the Lovegood residence passed by quickly. The first few were consumed with the promised flying lessons, although Lyra gave up on Hermione after three and a half days. Hermione was able to become airborne, but she couldn't shake an all-consuming caution that gripped her when she left the ground. After that, they chatted or Hermione read during the day. She caught snippets of Henry Lovegood's conversations with the house elves regarding the upcoming ball, which she learned would take place to bring in the new year. It sounded like every pureblood in the country was attending (and Hermione, although no one knew she didn't fit into that category).

Christmas for Hermione came and went like a strange dream. The day was the same as nearly every other day with the Lovegoods, except Luna's brother and his new wife were there. Lyra and Hermione exchanged gifts; Hermione had gotten her friend a Divination book and in return she received a Ravenclaw scarf. Staring down at the scarf, Hermione nearly burst into tears thinking of her missing Gryffindor one, but she suppressed them, at least until she was alone in her room.

Back at the castle, Tom's day was similarly uneventful, except that he canceled his Legilimency lessons once he realized the holiday. He told himself it was to give Malfoy space alone, but knew that he needed it too. He had always despised holidays, but he had been strangely looking forward to it this year. He had already picked out a present for Hermione: a copy of Slughorn's notes on all of his pending potions that Tom had obtained through a combination of magical talent, planning, and deception. It was a strange gift, but he knew it would have meant more to her than a trinket bought with stolen funds. She would have loved sifting through the notes, critiquing them, and discussing them; and he would have loved it, too. He thought about destroying the gift, or at least adding it to his own collection of books, but instead he kept it in its green wrapping paper while he sat on his bed, stroking the silver ribbon idly. Eventually, he shoved it under his bed, but he didn't work on any of his ongoing plans. Instead, he spent most of the day in the common room re-reading  _Hogwarts, A History._


	21. Happy Birthday To Me

Tom watched the slow simmer of the potion as it turned from deep blue to electric orange in an instant, a clear indication that it was done. Tom bent down and smelled the strong scent of chocolate wafting from the mixture, reveling in his success.  _Happy birthday to me_ , he thought with a mixture of pride and bitterness. He quickly collected himself and the potion, walking through the winding hallways of the nearly empty castle until he reached the similarly empty common room.

Tom stroked the door of Hermione's room first with his bare hand, feeling the magic radiating off the door in waves. Then he poured the mixture onto his left hand, rubbing the liquid slowly into every crevice of his hand. Reaching forward, he slowly closed around the doorknob and turned; it gave in easily. Tentatively, Tom stepped over the threshold that separated the common room from Hermione's.

He cleaned off his hand and surveyed the room. On Hermione's nightstand was an unmoving picture of a short bushy-haired girl with huge teeth; it took him a moment to realize it was Hermione, and the two people standing on either side of her must have been her Muggle parents. Tom expected to feel some disappointment at this development; after all, he had been unsure until this moment that Hermione was truly Muggle-born, despite her reassurances. Although Tom knew he had exceptional gifts for ferreting out lies, he felt somewhat unsteady about that gift when he was with the witch. He didn't feel anything upon confirming this information, though, except a bare streak of pride, knowing that she must have overcome as much prejudice as he had when he started at Hogwarts with an unknown name and unknown face.

There were no other pictures in the room. There were no personal effects at all. It was as though Hermione was ready to leave the room at the drop of the hat,  _which,_  Tom thought bitterly,  _she did._ Tom thoroughly searched the room, nearing frustration as the room continued to give up nothing. Finally, though, after several detection spells, Tom found something he hadn't even been looking for: a thick gold potion in a small bottle he recognized immediately.  _So I haven't found your secrets today, but I have found a bit of luck._

Tom tentatively surveyed the room again. There was nothing else to find; he had performed every detection spell he knew on every inch of the room, but all that was left was the photograph Hermione had left behind and a few books, none of which were rare or helpful.

Still, he didn't leave the room. He awkwardly reached out to Hermione's faded blue comforter, running his hands along it with a sigh. Maybe just for tonight, on his birthday… It didn't take much convincing. He spent the night curled up comfortably in Hermione's bed.

* * *

"Lyra, you look…" Hermione didn't quite finish her sentence. Lyra looked like royalty. There were no fish on her dress, and the navy blue fabric only emitted a slight shimmer when caught in the light. The dress was tight around Lyra's midsection before flaring out ever so slightly throughout its full length.

"Dull," Lyra finished.

"That's not exactly what I was going to say," Hermione replied with a laugh. "I feel rather dull next to you, in fact."

Lyra shrugged. "The gray works on you." Hermione and Lyra had shopped for a new dress the week before (for Hermione; Lyra's dress was already picked out by her sister-in-law). Again, Lyra had been surprisingly helpful on the dress front, helping her toward a dress that she would never pick but fell in love over the last few days. It was high-necked and very fitted, with a thick material. The back was mostly open, with three thick horizontal lines crossing over. The dress was the same steel gray as the dress robes Tom had worn to the Ball, but Hermione pretended not to notice and Lyra was either too much in her own world to register the similarity or had too much common sense to comment on it. Sometimes with Lyra it was difficult to tell which was the case.

Even though the dance was held at her house, Lyra insisted on being fashionably late, which Hermione understood as her family fussed over her when they arrived. Hermione mostly stuck to the sidelines as Lyra danced with Lestrange dance after dance, and other couples stuck together or rotated between old family friends. A feeling of nostalgia tugged at her chest and for once, Hermione would have really liked to dance, but her intended partner was nowhere to be found.

Sometime later, when Hermione was pouring herself yet another glass of punch, she felt a tap on the shoulder and spun around to come face to face with Avery. He was wearing midnight black robes with gold trim that was slightly too ornate for her taste, especially with the family crest adorning the left side of his chest. His usually wiry brown hair was softer than usual; it was a nice shade of chocolate brown, not quite as dark or wavy as Tom's. Average. "Prewett."

"Avery."

"Surprised to see you here." Hermione hummed in response, sipping her drink. She had no interest in conversing with one of Tom's followers.

"Care to dance?" She had no interest in that, either, but an excuse was lacking, so she placed her hand in Avery's outstretched one before he yanked her to the edge of the dancefloor and pulled her roughly into his arms.

"Really now, what are you doing here?" Avery whispered in her ear during their awkward dance.

"Why shouldn't I be here?" Hermione asked, keeping her voice even despite feeling that she had 'Mudblood' written on her forehead.

"I thought you'd be with Riddle."  _Ah. That makes much more sense._ "You two seem fairly… inseparable."

"Yes, I suppose we do," Hermione said as evasively as possible. She doubted Tom had shared anything with them, and wanted to avoid the topic of conversation. If his followers sensed for a moment that he had refused to even say goodbye to her, her safety would be far from assured.

"And are you?"

"I'm sure Tom would love to know how nosy you are, Avery." Hermione mimicked Draco to try to sound as haughty as possible. Apparently she had been successful as the dance finished silently. Part of her felt silly for hiding behind Tom like a shield; she was a gifted witch, after all. But perhaps she had simply spent too much time around Slytherins to get into a fight needlessly. She knew she was brave; why prove it?

The rest of the dance was uneventful and Hermione ended up heading up the grand staircase earlier than she expected, though she doubted anyone would notice. Some days she felt that this entire adventure was a misstep; she loved spending time with Lyra, but the time away from Hogwarts hadn't been nearly as relaxing as she had anticipated. One thing it did, though, was strengthen her resolve when it came to Tom. When she got back, she was going to tell him everything, come what may. It may make things worse, but it might make them better. Considering how bleak it was when she left the future, it had to be worth a try. Tom had to be worth a try.

* * *

The Hogwarts Express left two weeks later, on the Saturday before classes resumed. By that time, Hermione was anxious to return to Hogwarts, missing Tom so much that it pained her. The stress of what he might say filled her stomach in a manner that left no room for actual food, so she didn't have anything but snacks throughout the day.

Hermione rushed to their shared common room when the train came in, but Tom wasn't there. "Tom!" No response. Hermione couldn't help but feel that he was avoiding her again, and could only hope that she could convince him to forgive her for leaving.

Just because she was unable to eat, though, doesn't mean that Tom was. She decided to camp out in the common room, hoping to catch him sometime in the next day and a half before class. Her plan was a success when the evasive wizard appeared at one o'clock Sunday afternoon.

Hermione was in the middle of reading one of her textbooks. Even though she had been waiting for Tom, she practically jumped when he came in, startled by the presence of another person. She quickly collected herself, though, and shot him a brief uncertain look before rushing to hug him, burying herself in his chest and squeezing him like he was a tube of paint that she was trying to get the last drop out of. Tom stood beneath her, unmoving. Finally, she let go and looked up into his eyes, likely her only hope of discerning what was going through his mind. Like the rest of him, though, they too were impassive. "Hi, Tom," she whispered nervously.

Tom reached up one of his long, pale hands and pulled out a wet piece of parchment from his shirt pocket, handing it to her unceremoniously. "I believe this belongs to you."

Hermione opened it tentatively. It was the note she had written to him. The letters had slightly run together, but there it was, her soul laid bare to him and returned to her without fanfare. It broke her resolve momentarily, but she quickly regained it. "I'm sorry about this."

"Don't be. I'm the one that got it wet."

"I meant for leaving."

"Ah," Tom responded with a slight nod although Hermione knew he had understood her meaning originally. "That. The break was very productive." The last word was pronounced slowly as though it were a warning.

"I did a lot of thinking."

"Oh?"

"I've been wanting to talk to you. I've called your name."

"I have sound proofing charms on my door. Your cat can be quite rambunctious, particularly with the scratching."

"It doesn't matter. I would still like to speak with you."

"I'm rather busy; can it wait?"

"No."

"Make it quick, then." Despite his attempt at nonchalance, Tom's slightly narrowed eyes and the two wrinkles that formed between his eyebrows gave her all the encouragement she needed. After all, she likely wouldn't get more than this.

Hermione didn't dance around the point. "I love you." Tom twitched, his shoulders convulsing slightly before he could regain his composure.

"That's unfortunate."

"Tom… I want to tell you everything." He opened his mouth to protest, but she didn't let him. "I know you're curious."

Tom laughed, a cruel laugh that she had never heard come out of his mouth, but sounded eerily familiar nonetheless. He walked toward her and she wanted to stand her ground, but she moved away from him almost by instinct, and he had her pinned to the wall within seconds without anything but a casual walk. "You were a curiosity, but weeks apart was more than enough to make me forget about your oddities. I'll deal with you after I've managed Legilimency. Until then, Granger." He disappeared outside the door while she remained against the wall of their common room, shaking like a leaf. She knew he used her last name to taunt her, to remind her that she had already given part of herself, but she still couldn't regret that. In fact, she was more determined than ever to get Tom Riddle back before he slipped further from her grasp.


	22. A New Arrival

Of course the first course of the week was, as always, Potions. Hermione trudged there half-heartedly; what was she even doing repeating her seventh year at this point? She had abandoned her mission and fallen for the Dark Lord who was diligently avoiding her. Entering the room, Hermione couldn't bring herself to take her old seat next to Olive, so she sat in her new seat at Tom's table. Perhaps Tom could act like an adult.

That didn't happen, of course; Tom walked in with Mildred of all people and the two of them sat with Olive. Abraxas filtered in at the last minute and looked downright panicked as his eyes flicked back and forth between the two tables. Reluctantly, he slipped into the seat next to Hermione.

Hermione had expected to sit in silence, so she nearly jumped when Abraxas leaned over and whispered in her ear in an angry hiss, "Can you fix whatever is going on between you and Riddle?"

"I've tried," Hermione whispered back. "He won't listen to me."

"Figure out how to fix it," Abraxas said through gritted teeth.

Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but class had commenced and she was determined not to fade into the background. Before Slughorn had even finished asking a question, Hermione's hand was up in the air. She relished in Tom's reaction as she spoke; his head turned toward her ever so slightly before snapping back into place. If he thought she was going to let him forget about her, he had another thing coming.

Hermione answered most of the questions during Potions; Tom played it cool, refusing at first to escalate, but by their third class of the day, his hand was shooting up nearly instantaneously and the ferocity and details of his answers were increasing.

Their Charms professor loved the conflict, asking at one point later that week how Hermione would respond to Tom's earlier point. "I'm sorry, Professor, but I've forgotten what Mr. Riddle said." Whether it was the use of his last name or the feigned ignorance, Hermione could actually feel the dark magic to her right despite the fact that Lyra sat between them.

* * *

Tom bolted out of Charms, pushing past Hermione and her irritating friend. Hermione had been especially annoying. How dare she suggest that his words held so little importance to her. It was obvious to anyone how desperate she had been for his attention, but what was infuriating him the most was that it didn't stop him from giving it to her.

Tom had known, of course, that Hermione was intelligent; it was one of the traits that drew him to her. But he had underestimated the witch; she had matched him every step of the way now that she was no longer trying to hold back, and was instead pushing herself toward her potential. As Tom was mulling this over in the common room, Hermione came through and headed right for her bedroom, acting as though he wasn't there. Her behavior was childish but Tom reacted instinctually, blocking her path with a wandless charm that sparked her hand as she went to turn her doorknob. She tried again, only to have the same thing happen.

Tom could see Hermione's internal struggle as she stood by the door, silently attempting spells with her wand that he knew would be fruitless. Eventually, Hermione must have come to the same conclusion as she turned on her heel and put her hands on her hips, her bushy eyebrows knitted together over her always-expressive chocolate brown eyes that right now looked especially fiery. "What is the meaning of this, Riddle?" Hermione emphasized his last name, he was sure intentionally, but it didn't sound anything like it had coming off first-year Slytherins when he started Hogwarts who thought he was trash. Despite her anger, her tone only conveyed her regard for him. It was almost enough to melt him, to make him agree with her and hear her out, but the witch had burned him too many times; he knew the only foolproof way to discover the truth about Hermione was through Legilimency.

So instead of words, Tom pushed Hermione's hair behind her ear, stroking the soft skin just behind her earlobe, which he had come to learn was her weakness. She kept her angry expression plastered on, but he saw the slight shake of her left knee—a clear sign that the expression was fake. "Tom, what are you doing?"

"I was merely fixing your hair. It's a mess, Granger." He used her last name as well, although he could hardly muster up any hatred toward that. It was, after all, one of the only secrets he knew about her. A small smile ghosted on her flushed lips for a moment before she overcompensated with a frown that looked more like a pout. Tom chuckled in her ear before grazing his teeth along the top of her ear, down until he reached her earlobe and gave it a soft bite. "Tell me to stop, Granger."

"Tom…"

"It's Riddle, remember?" Hermione gave him an irritated look that was clearly not staged this time, which only egged him on more.

"Have you reconsidered our conversation earlier this week,  _Riddle?"_

Tom lunged in for a kiss, just to tease her, he told himself. But as he felt her ragged breath blending with his own followed by the feeling of her small white teeth grazing against his lower lips while her fingers ran through his previously neat hair, he felt himself getting lost. And as much as he might want to have things continue in this vein, relinquishing control with Hermione had never ended well for him before.

Tom pushed her away roughly and undid the spell on her door. "I fixed your door."

"What?" Hermione looked flabbergasted.

"You were having a problem with your door. It's fixed now." With that, Tom went into his room, determined to keep his distance from Hermione Granger—at least for now.

* * *

"Dorea!" Dorea was hiding in her four poster, reading off the dim light of her wand and hoping to avoid conversation with her roommate, Rose Rosier. "Dorea!" The more energetic witch ripped open the silvery curtains to Dorea's bed.

"Hello, Rose," Dorea greeted her in an even tone.

"I've been calling your name."

"Apologies. I thought I might have heard something, but I'm so wrapped up in my book that I didn't discern what the shouting was about." Rose rolled her eyes and looked at  _Advanced Healing: Balms and Other Plant-Based Treatments_ with an incredulous expression.

"I thought you were planning on being a housewitch, Dorea."

"I find healing very interesting. Besides, it's always good to know for one's children or husband."

Rose looked unconvinced. "If something is wrong, you should call for a real Healer. I don't want to read about Charlus dying from your untested craft." Rose was laughing, but Dorea was having difficulty suppressing a scowl.  _Untested craft!; my craft is very much tested._

"You're probably right. Still, it's a fascinating read. You're welcome to borrow it."

"I think I'll pass."

"Anything in particular you wanted to talk about?"

"Someone wants to see you." Dorea could feel her heart pounding in her chest.  _Please don't be Riddle. Please don't be Riddle._  She had just begun to hope that their first confrontation might be their last.

Dorea's mouth felt a bit dry as she responded. "Who would that be?"

"Who else?" Rose winked. "Abraxas." There were conflicting emotions at this pronouncement; joy, that a friendship forged since birth had remained intact and concern over what could have driven Abraxas to call on her.

"Thanks, Rose. I should probably go see him in that case."

"He's waiting for you by the portrait hole." Confused, Dorea shrugged and changed out of her lilac silk pajamas and into a sweater of the same color, paired with a plain black skirt. She was surprised to see the blond wizard standing perfectly upright, apparently unharmed. The last time they had spoken alone without him bleeding or bruised or her scared to death by Riddle was years ago, at his parents' funeral. She eyed him curiously, subconsciously checking for any sign of concealed unsteadiness or injury.

"I'm not hurt," Abraxas said, one pale eyebrow raised halfway up his forehead, his face slightly creased from a suppressed chuckle.

"Well you can't blame me for thinking you are. I've never received a social call from you."

"I wanted to apologize."

"For what? Mortifying me?" Now that her concern had melted away she found that she was rather vexed at him.

"Dorea…"

"No, don't 'Dorea' me."

"I didn't mean what I said. I know you and Charlus are very happy."

"Yes, we are," Dorea said in her trademark haughty tone.

"I wasn't upset with you."

"You made a good show of it."

Abraxas nodded and smiled slightly, crookedly. "I was frustrated because I feel I've brought you into this mess with Riddle, which I was trying to keep you out of in the first place. I should have never asked to you to help me with healing. I'm truly sorry about that, Dorea."

"What do you mean, in the first place?"

"Well, that's why I broke things off," Abraxas said tentatively, as though he were talking about something that he really shouldn't have.

"Oh," Dorea responded in a small voice. Then, briskly: "I'm glad we've made up. Call for me when you're hurt, won't you?"

"I'm going to try not to," Abraxas responded evenly.

Dorea softened momentarily. "If you really need me, I'm here."

"I know. I appreciate it."

She pulled him into a loose, awkward hug. "Take care, Abraxas." He nodded in response.

Dorea walked back to her room slowly, concentrating on her steps and trying to distance herself from the strange conversation she had just had.

* * *

Beyond the castle walls, there was a small plop as a young wizard landed in soft snow coating the ground of Hogsmeade. Luckily there was no one looking on, as Draco Malfoy had seemingly come out of nowhere. The grounds of the old village were pitch black as there was no moon and the time was just about five minutes after midnight.

Draco collected himself as he stood and brushed off the compacted snow from his salt-and-pepper cloak. Looking on toward the direction of the castle, he wished he could go to it right now. Unfortunately, the only secret passages him and Snape knew of did not yet exist, and he knew from spending a copious amount of time with Hermione that he certainly couldn't Apparate in. Luckily, he had the (current? future?) headmaster of Hogwarts helping him, so they were able to ascertain which weekends were Hogsmeade weekends, and according to old records, students would be pouring into this town only several hours from his arrival. He had Polyjuice in his cloak pocket; he was prepared.

Tomorrow, after months of planning and separation, he would be able to see Hermione, who had thought him dead all this time. Draco brushed away a little thought that whispered to him that Hermione might not be alive after nearly five months with the Dark Lord; he couldn't think that way. He just couldn't.

Draco slipped into The Three Broomsticks, thinking he would look less conspicuous if he rented a room rather than huddling up with a Warming Charm in a pile of snow. As he stepped into the pub that still had the smell of butterbeer, he saw that Madame Rosmerta was not yet the bartender- instead, there was a black-haired witch bartending. When she caught Draco's eye, she shouted, "Abraxas! What are you doing here? Tsk, tsk."  _Abraxas? That was his grandfather's name. Merlin, do we look that much alike, or has this witch had too much to drink?_

"I missed you, of course," Draco replied, putting on his best winning smile.

"You will get everywhere with compliments," the witch replied, winking, and pouring a drink. "Firewhisky on the house. I'll be in back if you need anything."

Draco knew staying here tonight would raise too much suspicion, as he was a "student," so he would have to stay somewhere else for the night. More interesting, though, was the witch's reaction. Perhaps he wouldn't need Polyjuice Potion to masquerade as a student after all.


	23. Reunion

It was one of those bright winter mornings where the sun glare off the snow made it difficult to see; perfect weather for Hogsmeade, but not ideal for convincing friends of the need to stay in and study.

"Come on, Hermione," Todd was insisting in between large bites of breakfast food in the Great Hall. "I've barely seen you since the break."

"Our NEWTS are coming up," Hermione argued insistently, not bothering to mention that she had already taken hers once.

"Those aren't for five months still."

The conversation continued in this vein for some time, with Lyra occasionally interjecting, but ultimately Hermione won out, determined to stay in the castle. She was exhausted from the week of cat and mouse with Tom, and didn't feel much like interacting with anyone. Of course, sometimes it can be difficult to achieve that goal. Although she only shared her common room with one person, it was occupied when she returned from breakfast.

"Why aren't you in Hogsmeade?" Tom demanded in lieu of a greeting. His mood changes were becoming difficult to bear; Hermione didn't understand why he was so angry, and why he continued to stay away when she had offered him everything he wanted and when he was still very much interested in her, judging off his earlier behavior.

"I have studying to catch up on. What about you?"

Tom gave her a bored look. "The same." He didn't even bother waiting until Hermione left the room to begin gathering up his belongings to find a new study spot: his bedroom. Hermione sighed and collected enough texts to keep her busy until late before finding her favorite spot in the back of the library to settle in for the day.

* * *

Back in Hogsmeade, Draco Malfoy woke early. He had ultimately Apparated and stayed at a wizarding hotel in London in hopes they wouldn't recognize him. Instead, he was given free room and board as Abraxas. No one asked why he wasn't at school, and that suited him fine. Once again, he had been thrown off by the assumption that he was his grandfather, but it cemented his plan to ditch the Polyjuice. Since it took some time to travel to the castle, an hour might have been insufficient, thus skating by as Abraxas was safer if people would mistake him for his grandfather in the light of day. Still, he had the Polyjuice in his pocket. Just in case.

Draco Apparated to Hogsmeade before students typically arrived, and found a nice hiding place where he could watch them go by. As the carriages rolled in, he saw several students, but none that looked like a Malfoy, let alone like him. It seemed that Abraxas had stayed in today.

Because he had planned on knocking out a student and taking their robes and hair, he didn't have any robes with him, so he had to Transfigure the ones he had on; it wasn't something he had ever been good at, so the process took the better part of half an hour. Draco looked down at the new robes; it felt odd to be donning the green and silver again. The last time he had been in his school robes was the night Harry died; the night he let the Death Eaters in.

Draco took a deep breath and tried to push those thoughts aside, and focus on the present (or the past, as it were). He gingerly pulled himself out of his hiding place and onto the street, planning to linger near the carriages, or as close as possible without drawing too much attention to himself. His plans were dashed when he heard two voices call behind him.

"Malfoy!"

"Why so secretive?"

He turned and saw two Slytherin boys he didn't recognize. He shrugged to save face, plastering a haughty expression on his face. That was probably the safest bet when imitating an ancestor.

"You look terrible," the shorter of the two insisted. "Bludger hit you?"

"None of your business," Draco responded dryly.

"You're so touchy lately, Malfoy," the other commented. "We're on our way to the Three Broomsticks. You should come; maybe a glass of firewhisky will bring some color back to you."

Because he couldn't think of a good reason not to, Draco tagged along, saying as little as possible. The other two were chatty enough that it wasn't difficult, and the afternoon passed quickly enough. Before he knew it, he was on his way to the castle.

The second the carriages pulled up to the familiar castle, Draco was a man on a mission. He didn't bother drinking in the grounds that he had been practically banished from as he was consumed with finding Hermione. He needed to confirm that she was alive and well, just as much as he needed to see her again.

The wizard made a beeline for the most likely place Hermione would be. As Draco walked through the nearly deserted library, he glanced down every row even as his pace quickened as he approached the last one, where Hermione's favorite spot had always been. And there she was, sitting on the desk in the corner as though no time had passed at all. Her body was hunched over as she scribbled furiously, hair bobbing around her and spilling all over the off-white parchment scattered across the small desk. She was alive. She was here.

"Hermione," Draco managed to choke out.

"Abraxas, go away," Hermione responded shortly. Draco was more than a little startled that even Hermione thought he was his grandfather, but she hadn't turned around, so their voices must have been more similar than he realized.

"Hermione, it's me," Draco insisted, stroking her arm.

"What the hell, Abraxas? I'm studying. First you tell me to patch things with Tom, and now you're what, all over me again? I'm a  _Mudblood_ , remember?"

Draco did not understand any of the things Hermione just said, and didn't have the mental energy to process them right now. Instead of asking for explanation, he grabbed Hermione and forced her to look at him, needing her to recognize him without him correcting her.

* * *

"Hermione," he repeated with more insistence. She continued to ignore him until he grabbed her jaw in a way that felt strangely familiar, though she couldn't quite place it. The answer came to her the hand roughly turned her face to force her to look into his eyes. Not the dark blue eyes that she had grown accustomed to, but a warm gray.

"Draco," Hermione said. The name stemmed more from thinking out loud than actual understanding. Draco, after all, was dead. A cold, dead body buried over fifty years in the future. And if she had changed the future so much that he had lived, he wouldn't know her; so why was he here?

Draco had pulled her into a tight hug while she thought this over, and she couldn't help herself from relaxing against him, her head finding its familiar space on his chest. He smelled the same: sandalwood and thyme. He stroked her hair wordlessly while Hermione wrapped around him, hands resting on his lower back. Idly she wondered if this was some sort of hallucination, or if she had truly broken the space time continuum and time didn't really exist anymore. Or perhaps…

Her train of thought was cut off by a rough kiss that slammed her into the opposite bookshelf. She could feel a slight throbbing in the back of her head but didn't pay it much mind. If the eyes and the mannerisms hadn't convinced her, the kiss did. She didn't think she could be hallucinating because she couldn't even remember this level of detail to dream it up. His nails digging into the back of her neck or the imperfect alignment of his teeth weren't specifics that she could have remembered if called upon, but awakened impressions in her memory.

"I'm sure you have a lot of questions." They pulled apart and he grabbed her jaw in that same way. "I can see that mind of yours racing, Granger," he continued, teasing her. Despite acknowledging her questions, she was caught in another kiss before she had the chance to form any of them into words. It was pleasant, but not consuming enough to stop her mind from wandering all over the place: what was happening?

* * *

The day was uneventful for Tom. He did want perfect scores on his NEWTs in hopes of securing a professorship, but realistically knew the scores would come nearly naturally. Really, he just hadn't wanted to deal with his followers.

After tossing aside the seventh text he had reviewed that day alone, Tom wandered down to the library in search of something new to read. He had already read all the books on Dark Arts, but perhaps some History before bed. He had never paid much attention to the past, but Hermione's fierce obsession with texts he had overlooked on the subject made him wonder if perhaps they were worth a second look.

Tom skimmed the rows of books, but he knew all the titles by heart. He just needed to pick one out. The library was incredibly quiet, as it was after hours, but as he was thumbing through  _Wizarding Wars: Parts XXI-XXIV_ , he heard the distinct sound of someone snogging. To check it out or not? Tom decided on the former; taking points from someone sounded like an enticing prospect indeed. In fact, it was one of his favorite pastimes lately.

As he drew closer to the bookcase that was disturbing the quiet of the library, he recognized one of the noises. It was a low moan that belonged to a witch—a witch that belonged to him. Torn between rushing over and investigating further, Tom's cautious side won out as he made himself invisible wordlessly. It wouldn't be perfect, but it would be good enough for the distracted couple in the dimly lit library.

Finally, Tom reached the bookcase and took in the scene in front of him. He felt his body betray him as he took in a sharp breath, but he remained unnoticed. It was Hermione; although her face was otherwise occupied, the hair was unmistakable. Tom couldn't make out the other wizard, though, so he waited. And he waited. He could feel his fury building up inside of him, but he suppressed it. He would deal with whoever it was later, after he had time to plan. Planning would accomplish two goals: keeping his actions discreet and ensuring maximum pain. The latter goal was the one Tom repeated to himself like a mantra as the hand holding his wand twitched as he longed to use it.

They pulled away. It was Abraxas, but that wasn't what surprised Tom the most. He used her name; not Hermione, but Granger.


	24. Sentence First, Verdict Afterwards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to Lewis Carroll for the chapter title. Warning for graphic violence.

_Granger._ The amount of time he had spent feeling victorious over knowing her last name seemed utterly ridiculous to him. He wasn't special; Merlin, she had told Malfoy. The thing he didn't understand was that Malfoy hated Mudbloods, and that hatred ran deep in the blond wizard. He knew because they had discussed it numerous times, too many of those times in relation to him. And he knew because he was careful, always knowing what motivated his followers so as to manipulate them effectively. But he had made a grave miscalculation. The only explanation was that Malfoy was using Hermione to get to him, and he was clearly attracted to the girl. The look on his face when he received his assignment was proof enough of that.

The information passed through his mind quickly as he tried to sort through it, but it didn't make any sense. And Tom wasn't even sure what he was most angry about; that his follower was trying to thwart him, that he was using Hermione, or that Hermione would kiss someone else. Well, perhaps he did know. (It was the latter).

Tom had absentmindedly started to head for the dungeons. He paced around for a while, trying to make sense of this situation. But he had to be right. Malfoy was trying to overthrow him. He had always had some hesitancy regarding Tom's upbringing, although he had come around faster than any of the other Slytherins. Perhaps it was the fact that he had been focusing his Cruciatus Curse on the wizard. Whatever it was, there was no excuse. He didn't care how powerful or influential Malfoy was; he would be punished.

There was no chance of sleeping tonight, and Tom needed some fresh air, so he started to walk toward the Forbidden Forest. Apparently more time had passed wandering the halls than Tom realized, because the subject of his thoughts was walking in from outside.

Tom could feel his heart beat faster with anticipation and adrenaline. "Malfoy."

The blond turned and looked at him with scared blue eyes. "Yes, my Lord?"

"Come." Tom did not look behind him to make sure that Malfoy was following him into the forest. He could hear Malfoy's erratic breathing behind him.  _Revenge is so sweet._  Tom couldn't help but smile.

Once they were sufficiently far from the castle, Tom stopped, turning around and wordlessly casting the Incarcerous Spell. Malfoy's mouth formed a small "O" as he was pulled back by ropes mid-stride, quickly tied against an elder tree. Tom had never bothered tying his followers before, confident that they would not attempt to leave even when under the Torture Curse. But after what he just witnessed, he no longer felt sure of Malfoy's obedience. Tom also knew that this would be far worse than any punishment Malfoy had ever received.

"Abraxas," Tom used his first name intentionally; this was personal. His voice came out in a smooth whisper. He would keep his emotions restrained, at least at first. "Do you know why I have brought you here tonight?" Tom stroked his wand as he spoke, not looking at the bound blond.

"N-n-no, my Lord," Malfoy was clearly trying not to stutter, but failing miserably. Tom could almost taste his fear. It was mixed up with his own rage that Malfoy would lie to his face. But he had likely been doing it for a while now; how long? When he took Hermione to the Ball, were they together? After he told her about his father, did they laugh about it in the halls?

"Lies!" Tom shouted, followed by, "CRUCIO!" He shouted it louder than he ever had before, putting all his anger and frustration into those three syllables, willing Malfoy to take the pain that was building up inside him. Malfoy writhed under the curse. His limbs flailed against his ropes, while his head moved more freely, hitting the tree behind him repeatedly. Blood started to coat the dark wood and Malfoy's crisp white shirt. But Tom was just starting.

"How long?" Tom demanded quietly, looking straight into Malfoy's eyes, wishing not for the first time this year that he could learn Legilimency faster. Instead of answers, all Tom found was fear. Malfoy was slowly shaking his head, silently crying.

"I don't know what you mean, I swear, please," his voice was desperate. "I'll do anything you ask, but please stop." Malfoy wasn't one to beg, so his tone told Tom how much more excruciating the pain was tonight. Tom thought about that as he felt his mouth form a strange, ironic smile. It felt odd on his face, but right, as though it had been lurking there all along.

"My apologies; I need to be more clear. Perhaps there are so many things you're lying about that you're not sure what we're discussing. I'm happy to help. What were you doing with Hermione earlier tonight?" Tom asked, standing perfectly still. Malfoy turned away. "Look at me when you answer, Malfoy."

Malfoy wasn't facing him; he had his head turned limply against the bark, crying softly.

"I said  _look at me._ " The only response was a whimper.  _"Imperio!"_ Tom shouted, forcing Malfoy to look him in the eyes. "That's better. Let me ask you again; what were you doing with Hermione Granger?"

"Granger?" The mock innocence regarding her last name was too much.

"I know you know that her name is Hermione Granger, Malfoy. I saw you two tonight. I saw your hands all over her, and I heard you say her name."  _Fuck._ Tom could taste a salty, silent tear that had made his way down his own face. He couldn't remember the last time he cried. It was probably as a first year.

Malfoy was shaking his head furiously again. "I haven't seen Hermione today. I haven't even spoken to her in ages, except in class."

"I. Saw. You. Are you calling me a liar, Malfoy?" Tom had his wand pressed against Malfoy's temple like a muggle gun, moving his too-perfect blond hair off his face in the process.

"No, my Lord. I don't—"

"You don't what?"

"I don't know what to say."

"Is your coup so important to you that you're willing to die for it, Malfoy?"

He was close enough to the wizard that he could hear him swallow. "Everyone will look for me; wonder where I am."

"No," Tom spoke softly. "You are influential, but you have no family. Just like me. There will be outrage from the pureblood community, but you're not like the rest. They'll forget you."

"You'll go to Azkaban."

"Malfoy, you know me. I'll be just fine."

Malfoy didn't respond to that, instead sobbing with his face still held up by the Imperius.

The conversation was over; Malfoy was too far gone in self-pity. Tom didn't restrain himself. He tortured Malfoy classically a bit more, and then took the opportunity to test out some of the more obscure material he had read about. Soon, Malfoy's head snapped down. The Imperius had broken; Malfoy was dead. And he hadn't even had to use the Avada.

Tom removed the ropes quietly, calmly. All his energy was used up now, finding a vessel in the now dead Abraxas Malfoy. He would have to leave him deeper in the forest, in hopes that creatures found him first. The odds were good on their own, but Tom knew he could count on the vampires if he left Malfoy in their pocket of the forest. Tom had made his peace with them long ago; he wouldn't be harmed. So, he levitated the body of his old friend and slowly made his way deeper into the darkness. The forest was eerily quiet tonight, almost as though it was mourning.

Tom tried not to look as he maneuvered Malfoy's body under branches, through thickets of trees, and over shallow ponds. Now that his rush had left him, he was starting to feel something unfamiliar. Loss? He would be missed as a follower, Tom supposed, but since he was obviously trying to overthrow him, it wasn't logical to think of how much Malfoy could have helped him.

Still, it all seemed so strange. Tom didn't pretend to understand people's emotions, but he usually understood motivation. And he never would have pegged Malfoy to be one to cross him. Malfoy had been the first Slytherin to bring him into the fold, practically brought his followers to him. What was more frustrating was that Tom's chance to find out what happened was likely gone forever.

When he reached the correct spot in the forest, Tom laid Malfoy down slowly, and hesitated. Tom had already planned for his next kill, and it seemed a shame to waste this one. He had a Cup in his room that Malfoy had procured for him; it seemed at once fitting and unnerving to use Malfoy's death to fill that Cup. But it would be illogical not to, and Tom was not illogical. He reached over to Malfoy's finger to slice off some skin and bone, but decided that would be too obvious if Malfoy was found. Instead, he gingerly lifted up Malfoy's shirt (which was really just ribbons at this point) and cut a piece of Malfoy's rib, with the attached skin and blood. This would do.

Numbly, Tom put the material in his pocket and started the two-hour trek back to the castle. It would be tight, but he needed to make it before anyone started stirring. Tom didn't think about much during the walk; finding Hermione and Malfoy kissing felt like a lifetime ago, or at the very least longer than several hours. His entire body was exhausted from the depleted magic, and instead of thoughts images just kept flashing through his head: Malfoy's body collapsed against the conjured ropes, Hermione's contented expression as she looked at someone else, their lips locked together.

Almost on autopilot, Tom stopped by Slughorn's stores. Slughorn had given him access long ago, so it was easy to get in, pick up the required ingredients for his potion, and leave. He went into the common room as quietly as possible, even though the portrait's incessant questioning about his whereabouts hampered that goal somewhat. Once he arrived in his bedroom, Tom began mincing and crushing the ingredients with his potions set.

The Horcrux potion had to be used within twelve hours of the death, so it would be close. Tom might have to skip breakfast, but would rather not just in case an inquiry was started regarding Malfoy. He forced himself to continue to prepare even though he wanted to curl up in his bed and drift off to sleep. Maybe in dreams he would stop seeing everything from the night replaying in his mind.

Luckily, he had the preparation memorized. After all, the third time was the charm, as the expression went. As the last step, he had to knot Malfoy's skin and slice his bone into neat, half-centimeter pieces. Tom had already put Malfoy's blood and his own into the bubbling liquid. Tom took a deep breath before touching the rest of Malfoy's remains, and forced himself to watch as he worked to make sure the technique was perfect.

Despite everyone's criticisms of the Dark Arts, they usually required a much higher precision than Light Magic. Sometimes Tom thought that's where the hatred came from. After all, any wizard can levitate a pen, but not all are strong or clever enough to create a Horcrux.

Feeling a bit smug, Tom finished his potion and went to his drawer, retrieving the Cup. He performed some spells to bind the Cup to his soul, although it was only temporary. The potion would seal it. He gently placed the Cup into the potion and waited. And waited. It usually didn't take this long; perhaps it had to do with the shape of the Cup. He had never used an object quite so large, although theoretically he could use a building if he wanted.

Nothing happened. An hour later, Tom finished frantically reading all his relevant reading material. He had done everything perfectly, but the Cup was just a Cup and he was nearly out of time.


	25. Dumbledore's Plan

"Draco, what's going on?" Hermione finally asked as they broke their second string of kisses.

"Merlin, Hermione, I can't believe you're here. You're really here."

"It's funny you should say that because I can't believe  _you're_ here. And it's you; you're the same. How?"

"Hermione, Dumbledore lied to you. I didn't die." Hermione felt like the floor was going to drop out from under her like in those muggle rides she always hated.

"I touched your dead body. It was cold and hard and… dead," Hermione continued, lost in the memory as she choked back a sob. Draco wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close.

"It wasn't me. Dumbledore knew my dead body was your boggart. He put the boggart in the casket and put a silencing charm over it so you wouldn't hear the boggart thrashing around."

"That's insane," Hermione said, more to have something to say than for Draco to respond. He seemed to understand, because he just stroked her hair as she thought through what he had just said. It would have worked; and Dumbledore had just seen her defeat the boggart earlier that day, so he must have been impatient to send her back. Earlier that day… how had she not guessed earlier? She had seen his body that same day. Unfortunately, she just had too much faith in Dumbledore. They all had.

Now that she knew what Dumbledore had done, she felt an overwhelming sense of guilt. She tried to reassure herself that she didn't cheat on Draco. After all, he hadn't even been born yet and more importantly, she thought he had died. But that wasn't what she was really guilty about. She could hear that even as Draco tried to stay calm to explain everything, he was shaken up and still furious at Dumbledore. But she couldn't bring herself to regret what had happened. Although challenging, and fleeting, what she had with Tom had been worth it.

"I believe you," Hermione mumbled finally.

"I'm sorry I couldn't come sooner; Snape had to brew a potion and it took ages, and that's only once I found out what happened. He told me you were on a mission at first."

"So how did you find out?"

"He died, Hermione. Snape told me."

Hermione nodded, processing. "He probably would have told you I died on the mission."

Draco's eyes widened in understanding. "Salazar, I bet you're right."

"Was it really bad now that Dumbledore's gone?"

Draco nodded slowly. "The war is essentially over."

"Well, I'm glad you came back then," Hermione said truthfully. She knew that Draco was stuck in this time now. At least he was safer here than in the future.

"I hope there are other reasons you're glad I'm back," Draco whispered in her ear.

She felt herself respond to his voice, but it wasn't fair. "Draco…"

"Hermione…"

"Draco, really. We should talk."

"Or we could talk later." He was breathing heavily against the shell of her ear as his fingers started to fondle her nipple outside of her shirt.

"Now," Hermione choked out. "We need to talk now."

Draco broke contact, looking up at her with a startled expression. "You've met someone."

"Yes."

"How did I not even…"

"Not even?"

Draco smiled awkwardly. "I didn't even think of it as a possibility, really. Does my being back change anything?"

"Well, we're not together, but…"

"So what's the problem?"

"I'm in love with him."

"Who?"

"Draco, you have to promise me that you won't get too upset."

"Hermione, are you in love with my grandfather?"

"Ew, no!" Hermione exclaimed, thinking of Abraxas's dead weight of a tongue. "Godric, Draco, it's—it's—" She was having a hard time finishing her sentence. She never thought she would have to justify this decision, after all. She had sort of slipped into it, and then Lyra had been so supportive. Of course, she didn't know what Tom would become. Draco was still staring at her intently as she fidgeted, but she looked him in the eye when she told him: "Tom Riddle."

Draco's hand was still on her hip where he had lazily been holding it. It reacted first, tightening into an almost a painful clasp. The news seemed to work its way up his body as he tensed his shoulders and sucked in a breath. Finally, his eyes widened, disbelieving and wild. "Say it again."

"Draco—"

"I need to know that I heard you correctly."

"Tom Riddle."

"You-Know-Who."

"Draco, he's not—"

"Say it. You're in love with the Dark Lord."

"I won't say it because he's not Voldemort. Not really."

"They are the same person, Hermione." Draco's deadly calm was quickly slipping into rage as he pulled back his hand from her as though she were on fire.

"They are not the same—"

"HERMIONE!"

Hermione watched him, wide-eyed and stunned. "Draco, I know it's a lot to take in, but I can't change how I feel. It's  _fifty-five years_  earlier. You're being overly judgmental."

"So, what, when you came back you thought, he's not You-Know-Who yet, I'll just go ahead and snog him?" Draco was still fuming, but he had lowered his voice at least.

"No, that's not what happened."

"Was this Dumbledore's plan? For you two to fall in love? Is that why he sent you back?"

Hermione furrowed her brow and looked at her previous boyfriend. "Why would Dumbledore want us to fall in love? Not knowing love was Tom's weakness; Dumbledore wouldn't want to make him stronger."

"I was just guessing. That prophecy was such a fucking jumble."

"Prophecy?"

"Why am I not surprised by your confusion? Something about you and Tom. I don't remember the wording. It doesn't matter, anyway," Draco added bitterly.

"Yes, it does. Draco, tell me what you remember."

"You really think you can boss me around right now, Hermione?"

"I think you could calm down a second and talk to me."

Draco didn't respond for a while; she waited. "Fine. I really don't remember much. Something about you and Tom."

"Yes, you said that. Anything else?"

Draco scrunched up his nose, thinking. "It was regarding him not making Horcruxes anymore."

"And that's all you remember?"

"Yes, Hermione. That's all I remember," Draco snapped.

"Damn," she whispered, trying to think about what that might mean. The most obvious explanation would be that she would kill Tom, and thus he wouldn't make any more Horcruxes. But the explicit mention of Horcruxes made her think that perhaps there was another way… It seems that all those Horcrux books would be coming in handy, after all.

* * *

_Knock, knock, knock._  "Go away, Mother. I'm asleep." Draco rolled over, trying to shut out the sound of pounding with his pillow, but was largely unsuccessful in the attempt. A couple minutes later, he heard the door creak open.

"Mr. Malfoy, I presume." The voice penetrated Draco's consciousness because it was one he hadn't heard since he had debated whether or not he should kill the wizard.

"Dumbledore?" Draco mumbled, rolling over and surveying the wizard. The last day came back to him slowly, forced into the forefront of his mind by the youthful appearance of the man he remembered as old, fading, and eventually, deceased. For his comfort, the Room of Requirement looked exactly like his old room at the Manor, which had made him feel initially disoriented.

"I mean, er, Professor Dumbledore. How did you access the Room?"

"Let's just say that I have my ways," Dumbledore responded, his blue eyes twinkling and his laugh lines pronounced with a slight smile. Despite the anger Draco had harbored toward him in the past few months, he felt the strangest urge to hug him. Something about seeing the formidable wizard alive inspired hope, and he needed that after the previous night. "I was wondering if you might come with me, Mr. Malfoy. We have matters to discuss, and I would prefer to do them in my office. Perhaps if you had conjured up a desk, but no matter."

Draco nodded numbly. Since he had just slept in his clothes, he simply smoothed them out and followed the wizard through the hallways. As he followed, he started to panic slightly. Did Dumbledore know that he wasn't Abraxas? He said  _"Mr. Malfoy, I presume?"_. If he thought Draco were his grandfather, surely he wouldn't have needed to add the presumption?

He didn't solve the puzzle by the time they settled into the somewhat cramped office, too filled with objects for its size. Dumbledore offered him a candy which he declined wordlessly.

"What is your first name, Mr. Malfoy? Although I refer to students by their last name, I find it odd to think of them as such."

"Er—you know my first name, sir. Abraxas."

Dumbledore smiled in a way that reminded Draco of his future self; it was mostly tinged with sadness. Although it was clearly forced, it still conveyed a quiet kindness. "No, I meant your real name."

"That is my real name," Draco half-heartedly insisted.

"I know it is not, as I have just seen Abraxas. I have one time traveler here; given your remarkable similarity to Mr. Malfoy and the lack of any living relatives in this time period, I have to presume you are a descendant?"

Draco hesitated, adjusting his green and silver tie that was slightly different in this time; rather than even lines, the tie was predominantly green with silver pinstripes. "Yes, sir. I still would rather not give you my name, though. Isn't secrecy important for the timeline, or something like that?"

"I'm afraid it's a bit late for that, Mr. Malfoy."

"What do you mean, Professor?"

"We can discuss it after introductions, I think."

"It's Draco."

"Pleasure to meet you, although from your greeting, it seems we may already know each other."

"Well, I—"

"Apologies for interrupting, but I think the circumstances surrounding our acquaintance are best left unsaid." Draco nodded, still tired. "I think it's also probably best if I don't know exactly how you are related to Abraxas Malfoy."

"That sounds fine. What did you want to discuss, Professor?"

"You may have heard about an incident that occurred hear last year where a young girl was killed."

Confused by the unexpected turn of the conversation, Draco paused before responding. "Yes, I am familiar with the circumstances."

"Then you may or may not know that the Ministry has made a very real threat to close this school if any other students die from unnatural causes."

"I didn't, but that makes sense," Draco replied, stopping himself midsentence from telling Dumbledore that the same thing happened in his time when the Chamber of Secrets was opened.

"Well, despite my best efforts to contain the student that I believe responsible, I believe he has struck again."

Draco felt the life drain from his face as he shakily leaned back in his chair.  _You-Know-Who killed again? This didn't happen in my timeline... that I know of, at least._  "What happened, Professor?"

"The injuries make it difficult to ascertain that. I believe the perpetrator tried to make it look like the vampires killed the student, but I have friends in the forest that notified me early enough to see that there was also dark magic involved. Unfortunately, the vampire-related injuries make it most likely that an official inquiry would blame those creatures."

Dumbledore did not have to tell Draco what "vampire-related injuries" were; he had seen enough of them before he broke with the Dark Lord, and it would make perfect sense that he would give a victim over to the creatures even now. "So what are you going to do, Professor? About the school closing down, I mean."

"Well, I had hoped you might help me with that."

"How?"

"Before I tell you how, I must tell you who. I am sorry to be the one to tell you this, Draco, but the student I am discussing is your grandfather."

Draco sucked in a deep breath, suppressing tears. He felt such an immediate and instinctual sense of loss that he would not have expected, as his grandfather had passed away when he was very young, and he had only seen him a handful of times, always at large parties where he was lost among the crowd. But the knowledge that he died at this young age, and with him his father who would never be born, and even his future self… it was a lot to take in. And then, as his thoughts moved in that direction, he blurted out: "Sir, how am I still here?"

Dumbledore studied him sympathetically, but it was tinged with a hint of suspicion as well. "I thought you might know the answer to that, Mr. Malfoy. I am not an expert in time travel, but it is my belief that had you come back with a time turner, you would have disappeared, but instead it seems that somehow you are completely disconnected from the effects of time."

Draco swallowed nervously, knowing that Dumbledore would not approve of the potion that had delivered him here, since Snape himself had described it as a subset of the dark arts. But then, his nervousness disappeared as he realized that for once, he held the power over this man that had taken everything from him. "I believe this discussion is over, Professor. I do not wish to share with you how I have come to this time, and I do not believe you are in a position to ask questions as you apparently need my help in preventing the school from closing." Draco's voice was cool and commanding, and he couldn't help but realize that he sounded just like his father.

Dumbledore's face hardened almost immediately, but he didn't press. "Let us turn to the matter at hand, then. I propose that we have a private burial for your grandfather. As I have already stated, he has no family and does not seem to be particularly close to anyone. And then, I think you should take his place. I need to avoid a Ministry inquiry, and you need a new identity. You are a Malfoy, after all. It seems only fitting that you should inherit Abraxas's name and gold."

Draco's mouth hung upon for a moment. Whatever he expected, that was not it. It was such a classic Dumbledore plan: odd, completely unexpected, but admittedly brilliant. "That will be agreeable to me, but I want Abraxas buried at the Manor."

"I know you probably don't think about such creatures, Mr. Malfoy, but I am concerned the house elves might talk."

"They will automatically pass to me, as I am his only descendant. I will take care of it."

"Very well. I think it's best if we do so today."

"I agree. I am going to discuss the matter with Hermione; I want to bring her." Draco waited for Dumbledore's response even as he told himself that he wasn't asking for permission. His former headmaster nodded wearily. Draco couldn't really process why he wanted Hermione there; he was still extremely angry with her. But she was more than a lover; she was his best friend. Probably the only real friend he had ever had, and he wanted her there while they buried his grandfather, even if her boyfriend had been the one to kill him.

"Please return with her as soon as possible. We should leave soon. And Mr. Malfoy—I'll need to teach you a spell to transfigure your eyes. It's effective, but only lasts twenty-four hours, so you must remember to perform it daily."

Draco considered this for a moment and agreed. "Thank you, Professor. When would be convenient for you?"

"I think tonight would be best, when we get back from the Manor."

Draco had no objections, and so went off to find Hermione.


	26. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all of you who have commented, given kudos, subscribed, or just read along so far! I love writing this story, so it means a lot that other people are enjoying it as well! :)

The burial was quiet and small. It was the first time Hermione had been to the Manor, and the first time Draco had been there since the winter of their sixth year. The grounds were expansive and alien; Draco surveyed them with a hint of nostalgia and sorrow. The death of his grandfather had hit him hard.

She was surprised at first when Draco asked her to attend, but realized that she was the only familiar face he had in this time, other than Dumbledore, she supposed. She had been in this time long enough to make friends and acquaintances, and even fall in love. But for Draco, the last forty-eight hours had held nothing but pain, from her rejection to Abraxas's shocking death.

Hermione hadn't fully processed her feelings on the matter. She had hardly known the wizard, and hadn't been very fond of the part of him she did know. He was incredibly racist, for one thing. But to die so young, and so suddenly? She couldn't help but feel the heavy weight of guilt, knowing that this death did not occur in her timeline.

Draco told her nearly immediately that Dumbledore hinted it was Tom, and Hermione had a hard time refuting that claim; after all, how many murderers were there on campus? She wanted to believe that it was the vampires, but trusted Dumbledore to perceive a magical signature. Then again, trusting his abilities and trusting him were two different things, and she wouldn't put it past him to tell Draco that Tom murdered someone with the knowledge it would get back to her. Dumbledore hadn't been happy when her and Tom started dating. All she could do was wait, and try to ascertain the truth from Tom, though that was easier said than done.

* * *

Tom warily took his seat in Potions. His stomach was tense and he hadn't been able to eat that morning. It had been more than a day since he left Malfoy in the forest, and still he hadn't heard anything. Surely there would be an uproar if he were found dead, or even seriously injured. Perhaps he was still in the forest, and everything went according to plan, but Tom's confidence had been thrown when he had been unable to make a Horcrux. The only explanation was that he felt too much remorse over Malfoy's death, but he certainly did not  _feel_ that were the case. Yes, he somewhat regretted his hasty actions, but Malfoy had deserved it by taking what was Tom's.

Tom's train of thought was cut off, along with his heartbeat, when Malfoy strode into the room, taking his now normal seat at Hermione's table. Malfoy steadily avoided Tom's eye, which was probably for the best because Tom felt the blood drain from his face. How was this possible? Was it possible in his emotional state that Malfoy had been less injured than he imagined? Or was Malfoy putting on a show, convincing him to leave his follower for dead? No; had Malfoy been able to resist the Imperius Curse, he would have. Well, he wouldn't suffer with these questions for long. Even if Malfoy did intentionally thwart him, he would not accept dissent.

Tom followed Malfoy out of Potions, catching up with him easily. "Walk with me, Malfoy."

The terror was electric, filling the air with Malfoy's clear anxiety. Tom walked until they reached a deserted hallway where he could hear the footsteps echoing behind him, finally turning on his heel to address his surprisingly resilient follower. "Malfoy."

"My lord," Malfoy said shakily with a small bow. That was new. Obviously his near death experience taught him added obedience.

"Did you understand our last conversation, Malfoy?"

"Yes, my lord, as much as I can understand the workings of your brain." A little over the top, but Tom didn't particularly mind.

"And you will cease in the actions that I found offensive?"

"Of course, my lord. My deepest apologies for having offended you." At least Malfoy finally admitted what he had done. It made Tom's blood boil, but Tom felt less inclined to punish him after the weekend he had. And now he knew why he couldn't make a Horcrux; the vessel he tried to use lived on. His technique was still perfect. He simply needed to stop letting emotions getting in the way of plans; if he had been calmer, he would have never mistaken Malfoy for dead.

"Good. I am pleased that you have come to know your place. I require your services in continuing my Legilimency training tonight. I will meet you outside my common room at eight o'clock."

"Yes, my lord."

"And Malfoy: don't be late." With that, Tom left, his feelings a mix of jealousy and relief at learning of Abraxas's survival. Though he hated to admit it, the strongest emotion by far was relief. Relief that the school was open and relief that Malfoy was still alive.

* * *

Hermione shot Tom a look during Potions, which he steadily ignored, not even bothering to cast her one of his trademark withering looks. Although he had flatly rejected her at the beginning of term, Hermione thought that they were making progress last week when he surprised her with the fierce kiss in front of her door.

After that, she had waited for him to make another move or respond to any of her attempts, but if anything, he had been more distant over the past few days. Hermione tried to avoid putting the pieces together, but only one thing had changed: Abraxas's death, which had nothing to do with her. The most logical conclusion was staring at her in the face; one more death and one ready Cup meant that he likely made a Horcrux, and that he had been the one to kill the elder Malfoy. That meant his soul would he halved again. And maybe he was no longer capable of loving her, if he ever had in the first place. That would also mean whatever prophecy Draco referred to hadn't come true because she had failed to follow through. She couldn't bring herself to regret it, though, even if she were responsible for the whole world burning.

"Hermione, we need to talk." Hermione nearly jumped at Draco's voice, partially because it was wholly unexpected as she had specifically asked him not to address her in public and because she had far from come to terms with the fact that he was alive.

"Draco, what did I tell you?"

"I can't meet you tonight. It has to be now."

"It will be odd if we skip lunch, Draco."

"No one will notice. As far as everyone thinks, we're not even friends, right?"

"Fine. Room of Requirement. I'll take the North staircase, you take the East."

"Thank you," Draco responded in a curt tone. Hermione pretended not to notice.

Ten minutes later, and Draco joined her in the Room of Requirement. Hermione didn't know what to conjure up, and ended up with a cross between the Gryffindor common room and the Dumbledore's Army room. Draco raised his eyebrow at the décor, but quickly brushed it off as he begun pacing frantically.

"Draco, you're making me nervous."

"Good."

"Draco, tell me what happened."

"You-Know-Who—"

"—Tom," Hermione corrected.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Riddle, then. He cornered me. And I don't know what kind of show he's put on for you, Hermione, but he is every inch the same person. I treated him exactly the way I treat him fifty years from now and he didn't flinch."

"There's no show. I'm not his follower, Draco."

"I'm not having this argument again, Hermione. He wants to  _continue_ our Legilimency lessons."

"So he doesn't know Abraxas is dead?" If he didn't know Abraxas is dead, he couldn't have made a Horcrux.

"Or he's just messing with me."

"That doesn't make any sense. If he knew you weren't Abraxas, he wouldn't confront you. He would gather more information about you, watch you for a while. He certainly wouldn't reveal his power to you. And if he had been the one to kill Abraxas, he wouldn't be unsure if he were dead or not; he would make sure he finished the job."

"You have a disturbing amount of insight into the Dark Lord, Hermione." The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable. Hermione knew the break up was still raw for Draco, but she was having a hard time feeling too sorry for him when he was so antagonistic toward Tom.

"Don't call him that, Draco." There was an edge to Hermione's tone which Draco responded to by backing off, at least for now.

"So even if Riddle doesn't know, he will know tonight once he realizes that one of these minds is not like the other one."

"That's only true if he's made substantial progress with Abraxas. Perhaps he's still at the early stages, in which case it might throw him off, but he won't be able to figure it out, especially because it's pretty far-fetched that you are anyone but who you say you are."

"But how do we know if he's at that early of a stage?" Draco was trying to hold it together, but his voice was cracking slightly. Living under Voldemort's thumb for years had instilled a nearly instinctual fear when it came to him, and Hermione felt sorrow for the blond wizard in front of her.

"Draco," Hermione said soothingly, wrapping her arms around the blond wizard and letting his head drop onto her forehead. "He isn't Voldemort yet. You're going to be alright. Just be on your guard tonight, and let me know what happens, alright?"

Draco nodded slightly against her forehead, his soft gray eyes peering hopefully into her own. Their noses brushed together and she could feel his breath against her lips, but she forced herself to push away, not wanting to hurt him further. "I should get some food before class. Let's meet here before breakfast tomorrow. You can tell me everything."

"Okay." With that, Hermione left, her feelings for both wizards tugging her in different directions. She was nervous for Draco tonight, but she had a hope that Tom's soul wasn't degraded further that she hadn't had before. And that made her step a bit lighter.

* * *

Tom gripped his fork a little too tightly as Malfoy and Hermione filed in shortly after one another, each missing over half of lunch. When they had both been missing, he had noticed it immediately, furious that Malfoy would defy him so quickly. The only explanation that would be acceptable is that Malfoy broke things off; but why hadn't he done so before, when he had left him with the vampires, so close to death?

The last few days had been confusing, and Tom didn't like to not know what was going on. One thing was for certain: he would pry the answers out of Malfoy's mind, no matter the effort or time it took.


	27. Dorea's Discovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry all for the delay! I think some of you will be very happy with this chapter and others… :)

Hermione tried to suppress her nerves, but they escalated throughout the day. Her next two classes were with both "Abraxas" and Tom, and she couldn't bring herself to ignore the daggers Tom kept staring at Draco. It wouldn't be too concerning if it were anyone else, but Tom wasn't exactly harmless. She still had a difficult time believing he killed Abraxas; if he did, his actions toward Draco made no sense because he would know that Draco wasn't the real Abraxas.

None of it made any sense, but by the end of the day Hermione had resolved to use her life jacket: the Felix Felicis. She was going to find a way to get it to Draco before the meeting with Tom so that Draco wouldn't get hurt (hopefully).

Feeling better with a plan in mind, Hermione headed back to her dorm and tapped her wall, muttering a spell to extract the potion she had hidden behind it. However, nothing came out. She tried again. Nothing. Hermione poured over several books until she found a mention of the spell. She was saying it right. And she was doing the wand movements correctly. She had tested them several times before deciding to hide the potion there. Hermione brought herself to panic before she realized there was only one explanation, and he was on the other end of the Head common room.

Fuming, Hermione threw open her door and started knocking quickly and recklessly on the one opposite her. "Tom!" No response. "Tom, you better get out here before I report you for stealing!"

Tom opened his door in a manner that others would describe as lazy, but she knew him better: the molasses-like pace was calculated for effect. "And what am I supposed to have stolen, Prewett?"

Hermione couldn't prevent the sharp exhale. Using her fake last name was worse than a slap in the face; it was an attempt to erase all those moments together.  _Well, fuck him._ Hermione put her hands on her hips and stood up as straight as she could. "Well, Riddle, you have stolen my Felix Felicis."

"And why would I need luck?"

"I didn't ask why you needed it; your actions have been so illogical lately that I don't attempt to hazard a guess at them. I merely charged that you took it, not why."

"I didn't."

"You did," Hermione insisted, knowing that she sounded like a child.

"Where's your evidence?"

"I'll gather it in time."

"You really shouldn't have put me on notice if you're intending on doing some investigative work."

"Thanks for the advice."

"You're welcome, Prewett."

"Tom, why are you doing everything in your power to infuriate me?"

Hermione felt her body freeze up; Tom had performed a wordless Body Bind Hex on her before striding toward her so that he was close enough to whisper.  _"_ I have done everything in my power to infuriate  _you?"_  There was so much anger between his words that they came out shaky, unsteady.  _"Leave me the fuck alone."_

As Tom stepped out the portrait hole to his appointment, he quietly released her from the spell. What had made Tom so angry? The even stranger part was that Hermione wasn't scared when Tom paralyzed her and threatened her. In fact, she was thrilled to get a rise out of him. But she was still furious with him for taking her Felix Felicis, and upset with herself for being so fixated on her contingency plan that she riled up Tom before his meeting with Draco. The only hopeful thing she could think of was that if Tom could really do Legilimency, she would have been his first victim.

* * *

_How dare Hermione accuse me of anything with the way she has been acting lately,_ Tom fumed as he walked with Malfoy following behind him quietly. Tom paced past the Room of Requirement three times, asking for a practice space as always. A door appeared and he walked in with Malfoy following him.

Tom turned around and rose his wand in one motion. "Legilimens!" Just like every other time, Tom couldn't get past current thoughts and emotions. Typical for Malfoy, he was terrified. Strangely, the fear was lessened if anything from last time. Tom shrugged it off; perhaps it had something to do with confronting near death.

No matter. Current thoughts would be enough since Malfoy was relatively undisciplined; he could suggest topics and then probe Malfoy for his thoughts on them. "I need to know what is happening between you and Hermione," Tom asked. Malfoy's eyes widened with shock before Tom shouted the spell once more. He could feel a strong current of confusion, which was surprising as they had just discussed this matter, but the emotion that was coupled with it was more disturbing. Tom didn't know exactly what to classify it, but it was a fierce caring that he didn't expect from Malfoy toward a witch that he had repeatedly referred to as a Mudblood. Was that all an act? How much had Tom been missing?

"Do you have anything to  _tell_ me on this subject?"

"No, my Lord."

Tom sighed. He would just have to improve his Legilimency skills. In the meantime:  _"Crucio!"_

* * *

Dorea was walking down the halls, coming back from prefect rounds. She tried to walk calmly, but every reverberation of her own footsteps was filling her with fear. She had seriously considered asking Dennis Daze to walk her back to the common room, but couldn't bring herself to do it. Ever since her run-in with Riddle before the holidays, his promise that their conversation wasn't over had been haunting her.

Dorea froze momentarily as light came into the corridor. Turning around, she saw a lone light shining on the wall behind her. She was still deciding what to do when Abraxas came into view. "Abraxas, you scared me! I thought you were Riddle."

Abraxas laughed nervously in a very strange way. "Well, I'm not Riddle," he said simply. They walked the long path together to the common room mostly in silence.

"Did I do something to offend you, Abraxas? I thought we were good."

"No, we're good," he said in a distant voice.

"Is this about what we talked about when I last saw you? I just didn't see any point in getting into it, you know? What's done is done." And it was true; Dorea had agonized over her feelings for Abraxas, but ultimately decided they didn't matter. She was committed to Charlus, and Abraxas was in her romantic past, for better or for worse.

"Yes, I tend to agree with you. As I said, you haven't offended me." His voice was stiff and off, though Dorea couldn't quite put her finger on how.

Dorea was starting to feel paranoid; what if Riddle had sent someone Polyjuiced? "I wasn't trying to criticize your grades, you know, I just wish you would put more effort in." Abraxas would know this was  _not_ what they had discussed, but…

"It's okay, I know I could try harder."

_"Incarcerous!"_ Dorea reacted before floating the now-bound Abraxas look-a-like into an open classroom.

"What the fuck?" Fake Abraxas asked; he looked exhausted.

"Who are you?"

"Abraxas."

"Fine, we can just wait until your Polyjuice wears off."

"Good luck with that," Fake Abraxas scoffed.

"And what is that supposed to mean? You think you're going to talk me into letting you go before the hour is up?"

"No, clearly you're going to do whatever you want, but there will be no change of my appearance. This is what I look like."

"So what are you saying, that you're his twin? I've known Abraxas since he was a child, and he doesn't have a twin."

"You might as well do whatever you're going to do because you won't believe my story regardless."

"Try me."

"First can I get a name now that we've established I'm not Abraxas?"

Dorea was a bit thrown by that; he didn't even know her? But she nodded slowly and responded. "Dorea. Dorea Black."

His eyes flashed with recognition, deepening the mystery. "Let's see. I'm Abraxas's grandson from the future. I somewhat blindly went back in time to rescue Hermione from Riddle only to find that she is in love with him, and he killed Abraxas so Dumbledore asked me to take his place. I think that about sums it up."

It was a good thing he was tied up already because Dorea dropped her wand. One, two, three taps on the ground before it settled. "Abraxas is dead?"

"Yes," Fake Abraxas said quietly. "I'm truly sorry you're finding out like this. Dumbledore insisted that there was no one Abraxas was close to who would want to attend the funeral. I should have known he was lying," he continued in a disgusted tone.

"He probably didn't know," Dorea said quietly. Their friendship had been so private; although she had never admitted to herself that it was the case or why, she knew. It was because their friendship would seem too close to most considering that she was engaged to another. But the cost of the secret had been too great: Abraxas was dead, and maybe she couldn't have prevented that, but she didn't even get to attend his funeral. "Was it a nice funeral?" Dorea managed to stammer out, too emotionally gone to care that she was now crying in front of a stranger.

"It was."

"Was it just you there?"

"Dumbledore and Hermione were also there. It was at the Manor."

"Good. He would have wanted that."

"That's what I thought. Malfoy pride goes back a long way."

"So you said you're his grandson?" Fake Abraxas nodded. "Then how are you here?"

He smiled in a lopsided way that reminded her of Abraxas. "Magic. I'm actually related to you, too."

Dorea struggled with whether to ask the question or not, whether it would be too painful to know, but she heard it come out anyway. "Am I your grandmother?"

"No," the man across from her said sadly, "I'm sorry—I didn't mean to suggest—"

"It's okay."

"You're my great-aunt on my mom's side."

Dorea just nodded, disappointed and relieved all at once. It would have been too much to give up if his answer had been different.

"What's your name, by the way?"

"Draco."

"So you and Hermione…?"

Draco shrugged. "She's really fixated on Tom." He continued talking, but Dorea could barely hear it, as her numbness began to fade and she focused her fury into a plan that Riddle wouldn't see coming.

* * *

Hermione was running late in the morning. She had overslept, her natural alarm clock failing her because her dreams jolted her awake as she continued to see the fury in Tom's eyes from the night before focused on a new target: Draco. How could she forgive herself if something had happened to him because of her inability to hold back her emotions when it came to Tom?

So, she half-ran, half-power walked to the Room of Requirement early the next morning, hoping that her fears were for naught. He was already there; the door opened easily to a "sunny" replica of the Hogwarts grounds. The fake sun illuminated his already-light hair, making it almost match his skin. His fake blue eyes looked strangely unnatural in a way they never had on Abraxas.

"Are you alright? Are you bleeding internally?" Hermione demanded, breathless from the walk.

"No, I'm not hurt. Nothing but a short  _Crucio_ , but what night with the Dark Lord would be complete without one?" Draco was smiling softly, but she could tell from the slight grimace he was either still in pain, or the memory was a powerful one. Before Hermione knew it, she had wrapped her arms around Draco fiercely; the action was quickly returned.

"I'm so sorry he hurt you. I tried to get my  _Felix Felicis_  for you last night, but Tom took it somehow." She let go of Draco to speak to him, but his arms were still wrapped around her waist, so she looked up at him from just a few inches away. It was strange to notice that even with his eyes transfigured they still responded in the same way. When she mentioned Tom, they darkened, but to a deeper blue rather than a stormy gray.

"Hermione, he  _stole_ from you. You're just another person he can use."

"Draco, let's not have this argument again." Hermione responded. "I'm too tired to argue."

"How come? And why were you late? I'm not complaining, it's just not the Hermione I know."

"Nightmares. Tom was shaking with anger last night, and I was worried that I made things worse by arguing with him. It's probably my fault that you were tortured. I'm so sorry, Draco, I just saw that he had stolen the only thing I thought might help you, and—"

Her rant was interrupted by a fierce kiss as Draco's hand that had been wrapped casually around her waist pressed her against him.  _This is wrong,_ Hermione thought, followed by thoughts leaving as she found herself seamlessly horizontal on the prickly fake grass. The full effect made her feel like she was enjoying a normal summer day with her boyfriend of several years with no war and no Tom. It was uncomplicated and sweet; as Draco fumbled slightly with her bra, she laughed softly, and he gave her a peck while her mouth was open from grinning, hitting her teeth until they were both laughing under the fake sun.


	28. Draco's Deception

"Professor Slughorn?" Dorea asked in her best innocent voice (and her best innocent voice, if she did say so herself, was excellent).

"Dorea! How are you? I miss having you in class; you could have been a great potions master, I still say."

"Thank you, Professor Slughorn, you're too kind," Dorea responded modestly.

"Nonsense, nonsense. Now what can I do for you, my dear?"

"Well, Professor, I was wondering if I could use your Potions lab. You see, just between you and me, Charlus has trouble sleeping sometimes, and often gets Pepper Up Potion from Madam Ward. But I thought since we're graduating soon, I should use these last few months to practice making it myself."

"That's very industrious of you, Dorea. I'm sure you will have no trouble at all; the recipe is very simple. I could help if you want—"

"Oh, Professor, that won't be necessary," Dorea responded, having no intention of using the Lab to make Pepper Up Potion. "I think I'll be more likely to remember the process if I do it myself."

"Fair enough, my dear. You know where to find me if you need me."

"Of course. Thank you again, Professor. I greatly appreciate it."

* * *

Draco woke up the next morning feeling equal parts happy and guilty. At first, when Riddle had questioned him about his relationship with Hermione, he felt confused. Hermione had told him that she dated Abraxas very briefly, and that his grandfather had only done it on Riddle's orders.

He hadn't time to think about it, under the scrutiny of the Dark Lord, but considering it later, the answer was obvious: when he had seen Hermione again, and unabashedly kissed her in the library, Riddle must have seen. And so Draco felt guilty for a couple reasons.

First, was he responsible for his grandfather's death? It didn't seem like a stretch to think that Riddle would kill when confronted with Hermione with someone else. But it didn't seem like Riddle, at least not Riddle in the future. It was too emotional; Draco thought of the Dark Lord as more calculating than that. And if that had been the case, why only torture him two nights ago? Why not kill him "again"?

And regardless of Riddle's strange behavior, Draco felt sure that the Dark Lord had seen him with Hermione. And that was probably a source of tension between the two. When Hermione told Draco how they had argued, he had the instinct to tell her everything he knew. But was it truly wrong to keep things from her if they kept her from being with the Dark Lord? He couldn't bring himself to think that it was, despite the twinge of guilt.

"What are you doing, mate?" One of his roommates interrupted his thoughts; Draco recently learned his name was Avery.

"What do you mean?"

"It's Quidditch today," Avery responded in an irritated tone. "You better hurry if you want to eat before the game."

Draco's mind raced; how could he find out if he played, and if so, what position?

"Who's it against, again?"

"Are you serious? Ravenclaw. We have to win if we're going to have a shot at the Cup. But why am I telling you this? You're the Captain."

"I'm kidding, Avery."

Avery looked visibly relieved. "Good, because you need to catch the Snitch. And not before forty points!"

"Don't worry, Avery, I've got this," Draco reassured his teammate as he quickly changed into his Quidditch uniform.

"Okay." Avery didn't seem convinced.

Draco scarfed down his food in the Great Hall, catching Hermione's eye for a moment, but he couldn't read her expression. Worse, Riddle caught him looking and shot him daggers from across the Slytherin table.

* * *

Like many other Quidditch games, Draco spent a significant amount of the time flying around aimlessly, looking busy while not spotting the telltale glint of gold. And then Draco saw it: the snitch. It was floating just a couple of inches from the ground. Draco went into a sharp dive; at the same time, the other seeker also dove. He was closing in on the snitch; he was neck-and-neck with the other seeker, so much so that her long hair touched the snitch before his fingers wrapped around it. He couldn't lift the snitch in victory, though, because he was accidentally holding onto her hair in addition to the snitch.

"You might want to loosen your grip a little," the other seeker spoke calmly. Draco did so and she slipped her hair out from under his fingers, tossing it back. Draco lifted the snitch to loud cheering. Soon, he was being lifted by the Slytherin team and, for a moment, he felt like he was back in his own Hogwarts days.

* * *

After the Quidditch game, Draco didn't feel much like celebrating. Avery kept recounting the game while they walked off the field together. But though Draco had caught the snitch in one of the best catches of his life, Quidditch no longer held the same joy for him. And it meant so much less when he couldn't beat Potter. Because although Potter was dead in another time, another timeline, even, he still felt he was competing with him. After Potter died, Draco realized how much he enjoyed that dynamic, and missed him dearly, as one would an old friend. He hadn't felt nearly as much when he heard about Crabbe's death.  _That's because Crabbe was to me what Abraxas was to Voldemort. Nothing._  But Draco reminded himself that he would never do what Voldemort had done. But it didn't seem to matter. He had never killed, instead spending years trying to redeem himself from the spineless brat he once was only for the love of his life to choose Voldemort over him.

"Hello, Abraxas," a familiar voice interrupted his thoughts. He turned around, half-expecting to see Luna Lovegood in front of him, but finding instead the dark-haired seeker who had almost caught the snitch in his stead. Her statement was calm and matter-of-fact, but that didn't dampen its effect.

"Lovegood," Avery spat. "Being beaten on the field wasn't enough?"

"I just want to talk to Abraxas."  _Oh no, is this another person I'm supposed to be friends with?_

Avery looked at Draco, who shrugged. "Alright then," Avery said, not bothering to hide his suspicious look as he stalked back to the castle.

"I'm Lyra Lovegood," the seeker introduced herself, holding out her hand for Draco to shake.

"Um, I know. I think we've met before," Draco hedged.

"No, you don't. And no, we haven't," Lyra said matter-of-factly.

"I know who you are. We've gone to school together seven years."

"But you're not Abraxas."  _Did he forget to transfigure his eyes? No, he had done so this morning, under the covers right when he woke up, just as he did every morning._

"Yes, I am," Draco said in his best haughty tone.

"No. You look a lot like him, but your nose is turned up a bit more, which is a bit funny because you aren't as snobby as he was."

Draco wasn't sure how to respond that that statement, but couldn't help but feel his nose. Hermione and Dumbledore hadn't mentioned anything about his nose being different, but he supposed it was unrealistic to think he had the exact same features as his departed grandfather. Feeling his nose didn't give him any answers, of course, and he just continued to stare at the witch in front of him uncomfortably.

She was the one to break the silence. "I won't tell anyone. You seem like a nicer person than Abraxas. And you're much better at Quidditch. That's what I wanted to talk to you about, actually. I'm starting a Quidditch team and I think you would be a good addition."

"You're starting a Quidditch team?" Draco asked, incredulous.  _Every Lovegood is as insane as the next._

"Yes, I am. Not just me; I have most of the team together, including the manager. But we still need a Keeper and a Chaser."

"But I'm a Seeker."

"Yes, but so am I. And a better one, even if you got lucky today."

Draco glared at her for that, but she either didn't notice or didn't care. "What's the name of the team?" Draco asked, realizing that he would likely recognize it if, against the odds, it actually made it.

"Falmouth Falcons." To Draco's surprise, he had heard of it.

"It's a good name. You came up with it?"

"Yes. How did you know?"

"I don't know, falcons, birds, eagles, Ravenclaws."

"Oh. I didn't think of that," Lyra said flatly.

"What position do you want me to play?" Draco asked after a long silence.

"Keeper."

"Why Keeper?"

"I kind of get the feeling you don't work well with other people."

Draco made a face at that, but eventually accepted the truth of her words.

"Well, you'll have to audition with the rest of the team next Hogsmeade's weekend. I'll write them."

"Is it just a formality?"

"No," Lyra responded before walking away.

Draco just shook his head before heading off toward the common room. At least he would have something to distract him from everything else that was happening.

* * *

Meanwhile, Hermione had rushed back to her own room after the Quidditch game, finally determined to do the research that she had been putting off. She took out the Horcrux books that she had shoved in her trunk, despite the fact that she hadn't even glanced at them over the holiday. She had been too preoccupied with her (apparently unrequited) feelings for Tom.

But now, she resolved that she had to look through the books. Perhaps they could solve the mystery surrounding Abraxas's death. What she was looking for was some reason a Horcrux attempt would fail. If there was no such reason, then Tom must have made a Horcrux if he killed Abraxas. And since he clearly hadn't (or he would know Abraxas were dead), that would mean he hadn't killed him if there was no other way to fail.

Hermione went through the books methodically, taking notes more to keep herself going at a reasonable pace than because she was finding anything of use. She ignored anything that discussed how exceedingly difficult Horcruxes were to make. She knew Tom had already made at least two, so the difficulty wasn't an issue. She was also tempted to skim over descriptions of the process itself because of how graphic they were, but forced herself to do a close read in order to be thorough.

After she had gone through all the books (which had taken her the entire day), she was firmly convinced that Tom didn't kill Abraxas. There were three ways for a Horcrux to fail: lack of skill, remorse, and if the vessel used lives on. Tom was skilled. Abraxas was dead. And Tom was not remorseful. Therefore, he could not have killed Abraxas.

If he had, he would have used the Cup to create a Horcrux. And, because there was no logical way for Tom to fail, he would have succeeded. Then, when he saw Draco in class, he would have known that Draco was an imposter because he would have had the Horcrux back in his room as proof of Abraxas's death. And if he knew Draco were an imposter, he never would have approached him or revealed his true colors to him. He wouldn't have asked him to practice a skill that he was trying to keep a secret, or tortured him and showed him his vicious side.

Hermione couldn't help but smile. Tom hadn't killed again. He hadn't created a Horcrux. And she was proud of herself for at least solving one mystery. It was a much easier one to solve than the current state of her love life, certainly.


	29. A Toast

The whole school was abuzz over the upcoming Hogsmeade weekend. It would be the first weekend at the village without snow since autumn, and everyone was ready to celebrate the coming of spring. Hermione was slightly relieved when Draco told her he would be unable to accompany her. Something about Quidditch tryouts with Lyra, which sounded a bit insane, but Hermione let it slide. She could use the time to sort out her feelings, anyway.

And so Hermione found herself in the back of the same bookshop that Abraxas Malfoy had shown her. It felt bittersweet in a way; she remembered the day like it was yesterday. They had such a lovely time in the morning only to be ruined by forced kisses, fake confessions, and the reminder that she was scum to so many people. And yet she still felt sad for the elder Malfoy.

She wasn't looking for Horcrux books today; she had received her answers several days prior, no matter how strange they might have been. Today she was doing further research on the concealment potion she had performed to try to ascertain how Tom had broken the enchantment to steal her Felix Felicis.

"You won't find what you're looking for in that book." Tom's voice startled her. She had been so consumed with reading that she had forgotten the world around her; it was a dangerous habit, but one that she never could shake. Even more disarming than the mere presence of another human was the proximity and identity of the person behind her. Tom was so close that she could feel his breath on her neck, making the already wild hair there charged with the electricity between them.

His slender fingers came out of nowhere from either side. He closed the book slowly and put it back on the shelf, slightly askew and stacked atop the other volumes. Her hands hung where they had been limply, not lowering or attempting to fight his snatching of her reading material, but instead hanging in the hair as though nothing had occurred.

Still she didn't turn around. "What makes you think you know what I'm looking for?"

"I don't pretend to know what you're looking for in general, Hermione. I've learned that you only disappoint me." Hermione started to turn, but Tom pressed against her so that her body was held between the wood of the bookshelf and the person behind her. "In this case, though, I believe you are attempting to ascertain how I penetrated your defenses. And as I said, you won't find it in that book."

"Why do you say I disappoint you?" Tom's fingernails grazed her hand that lay flat against a row of books. He traced a line up her forearm, tickling her slightly against her wrist. His hand finally settled for gripping right above her elbow, a little too hard for comfort.

"You lied to me, Hermione."

"You'll have to more specific," Hermione replied breathlessly, her breathing slightly affected from the manner in which her chest was compressed. She lied to Tom about plenty of things, after all, but he knew that for ages.

"I think you know what I'm referring to." Tom's free hand (the one that wasn't pushed up against her arm) found its way under her many layers. Despite the lack of snow, Hogsmeade had been chilly, and she hadn't bothered to take her coat off. She felt his fingers find her knee right under the hem of her black coat, and then slowly ghost their way up her pant leg, so that she found herself hoping perhaps… but he passed her waistline, slipping his hand under her shirt and tracing her belly button and several of her ribs.

"What are you doing, Tom?" Hermione asked, slightly afraid to. She didn't want to break the moment, but her curiosity got the best of her.

"Reminding you," Tom replied coolly, his cool breath causing goosebumps to form in her ear. "I'm done with whatever game you're playing, and I'm not giving up."

"Giving up on what?"

"You. You're mine, despite whatever delusions you seem to be under."

Hermione huffed, annoyed at his phrasing. "You can't tell me what to do, Tom. And I don't know why you feel the need to. I told you I'm in love with you, and you've been nothing but cruel ever since."

"I saw you." Saw her…? Hermione's eyes widened in shock. Her and Draco in the library. Tom must have seen.

"Tom…" She tried to turn around, but his hand moved like lightning to trap her other arm, bony fingers wrapped around her wrist. "You saw me with—"

"Abraxas," he interrupted hoarsely. "I saw you with Abraxas." And Hermione wasn't sure how to feel at the clear tinge of regret in his voice as he pronounced the three syllables of the man he didn't know was dead. He had killed Abraxas. The Horcrux had failed because of his remorse. She had miscalculated. She had really, really miscalculated. Tom had killed again, but felt such a depth of remorse he was unable to immortalize himself further.

"You don't have anything to say to that?" Tom asked, interrupting her reverie.

"You don't get to be angry about that, Tom. You had rejected me."  _And he was my boyfriend. A boyfriend I thought you killed._

"You left," Tom said simply.

"I know. I'm sorry." And she meant it. His arms dropped, wrapping around her, his nose nuzzling her neck under her mess of hair before tracing light kisses against her hot skin. She turned and buried her head in his chest, unable to stop the tears rushing out of her. Soon, her body wracked with sobs. To Tom's credit, he didn't say anything, simply stroking her hair.

They broke their embrace slightly, moving just far enough apart for their noses to brush before their mouths met in a salty kiss. It was soft and tender, strange but right.

"I know I put a lot on you," Tom said awkwardly. He had no idea.

"Let's talk tonight in the common room," he suggested. She knew he was trying to give her space, but his gray eyes were dark and smothering, conveying the message that had begun with clearly: she was his. There were no real options, only the illusion of them.

"Okay." He turned as though to walk away but she grabbed his jaw, smashing into him with a kiss that was anything but sweet. Her tongue forced open his slightly chapped lips, and he responded by yanking her against him, so that there was no air between them.

After their kiss broke, neither of them spoke. She stayed where he had found her and he slipped away as though he had never been there at all. Hermione inhaled sharply, sinking down and continuing to cry.

Eventually she collected herself. Feeling she could make no further attempts to research, she left the bookshop and headed toward the warm comfort of the Three Broomsticks.

As she walked toward the familiar pub, a familiar voice shouted behind her, "Hermione! Wait up!" Hermione instantly recognized the voice: it belonged to Dorea. But there was a warmth in it that she was not accustomed to receiving from the woman. She paused regardless, not seeing any other polite option.

"Hermione, I wanted to speak with you about something. Could we get a drink, perhaps? On me?"

"Well, alright then," Hermione replied with hesitation. She would have preferred to be alone to mull over her conversation with Tom, and her revelation about Abraxas, but perhaps the distraction would be worthwhile.

* * *

 

The only reason Dorea had gone to Hogsmeade that day was to find Hermione. She had the completed orange liquid bobbing around in its vial, tucked inside the pocket of her blood red coat.

She had seen the witch several times at the Three Broomsticks, and thought it was a solid bet that the witch would end up there eventually. Dorea had gone over the plan several times in her head. She would extend an olive branch. Hermione wouldn't be able to resist it. And then, she could slip the potion into her drink. She had the potion since the previous Wednesday, and it pained her to wait to enact her plan, but she could not think of a reliable method to deliver the potion to the disheveled brunette otherwise.

So, when Dorea finally saw the woman in question emerge from the bookshop, she kept her place leaning against the opposite storefront until Hermione had a bit of a head start. Then, she shouted after her. Hermione looked put off, but agreed to a drink. As they entered the pub, Hermione glanced around, dejected.

"It's packed in here," Hermione declared.

Dorea wasn't one to waste a good opening. "Why don't you go find a table and I'll get our drinks?"

"I'll try."

That was good enough for her. Dorea wandered up to the long counter and ordered one butterbeer for Hermione and a firewhisky for herself. She didn't want to get the same drink as Hermione. It would be too easy to get the glasses mixed up. So, she grabbed the glasses from the counter, pulling the required amount of money out of her pocket and dropping it on the counter with a tense smile.

Now was the difficult part. The barmaid had turned away from her, no longer needing to tend to her now that Dorea had full drinks and lighter pockets. Dorea pulled the vial out of her pocket, and leaned over the drinks as she poured the potion in. As she did so, she pretended to be looking at something in her coat so that no one would wonder why she was leaned up oddly against the counter with her coat open like a tent. No one questioned her. She let a breath out. So close.

"Hermione, you found a table!" Dorea exclaimed with all the enthusiasm she could muster. Hermione was regarding her warily, but she nodded.

"I got lucky, I suppose." Hermione reached out for her butterbeer and put it up to her mouth. Before she took a sip, though, she set it down and regarded Dorea. "You got firewhisky?"

"Well, I am of age. And besides, I needed a little liquid courage for what I wanted to talk with you about. Shall we toast?"

"To what?" Hermione asked.

"To you." Their glasses clinked, and Dorea held Hermione's gaze as they both drunk from their respective glasses.


	30. Contingency Plan

Despite being raised as a pureblood witch and regarding her duties as one seriously, Dorea had never been one to lie in wait for things to happen. And so when she was thirteen years old, freshly heartbroken and already betrothed to a man she had barely interacted with up to that point, she was determined to make the best of it.

They fell into a relationship nearly seamlessly, and he was nice enough; things could have been much worse if it had been Avery or Lestrange, after all. But she couldn't shake the overwhelming feeling of dread she felt when she thought ahead to their marriage. And so, she began to research options for love potions, musing that it might be a good option for her if she could keep her head while under it. She wasn't willing to shirk her duties, but didn't want to spend her life filled with unhappiness, either.  
She settled on a potion that seemed perfect for her. Rare in its application, it had to be used when one felt fondness toward the object of the option. It was useless for its typical application forcing romantic love from a subject that despised the object. Its effect was subtle, creating nearly real love. But the secondary effect was what she really needed: it eliminated romantic love toward anyone else. The potion wasn't permanent, but it lasted until an antidote was used. And she wouldn't need to use it.

And so, she began to collect the hard-to-find ingredients, which took her nearly two years. By the time she had assembled the components, she was hesitant. She had begun to really love Charlus, even if it was different from the love she still felt for Abraxas. And as she spent less time with the latter, she was increasingly able to convince herself she was over him entirely.

Still, whenever Dorea went to rid herself of the ingredients, she hesitated, burying them deeper in her drawer instead, keeping them for a rainy day.

But the rainy day she had kept them hidden away for came sooner than expected. When she heard about Abraxas's death, she felt herself break, feeling such a depth of loss that she knew she would never forget the strain in her chest or the shakiness of her hand. And she couldn't convince herself that she never loved him, but she no longer wanted to. Taking the potion would be an insult to his memory. Dumbledore had been right; he wasn't close to anyone, really. She would miss him the most. And she had to give him—and herself—that much, at least.

But as Draco spoke to her, conveying with easy frankness his raw heartbreak over Hermione, she knew she could help someone else have lasting love and exact her revenge on Abraxas's killer: by making Hermione fall for Draco. It would be subtle; everything she had read said that it wouldn't even be noticed if administered by a third party. But it would be lasting, and she could give Abraxas's grandson happiness. She felt some guilt over giving it to Hermione, but it was the right thing for her, too. A life with Riddle was no life at all.

All these thoughts and more ran through the witch's head as she held her breath while Hermione drank from her butterbeer. There were a million things that could go wrong with the potion, and Dorea trusted herself, but not so much that she was arrogant. So she nervously asked: "How's the butterbeer?"

"Good as ever," Hermione said in a distant voice. She seemed distracted suddenly.

"Everything alright, Hermione?"

"Um… it's just that, well, Abraxas, I mean, he said he's going to a Quidditch tryout with Lyra."

"And?" Dorea asked flatly, suppressing the hope that was building in her chest.

"Doesn't that sound odd to you?"

"Yes, but your friend  _is_  rather odd. Why is it bothering you?"

"Well…"

"You can talk to me, Hermione."

Hermione regarded her suspiciously.  _Good. She's still herself. It's going to be fine._  "It doesn't matter," Hermione said finally. "You said there was something you needed to talk to me about? That required liquid courage?"

Dorea suppressed a frown; she had completely made that up on the spot and didn't have anything. Well, she may as well test out the effects of the potion and go for the jugular.

"I'm in love with Riddle."

* * *

 

 _Was there alcohol in this butterbeer?_ Hermione felt a strange feeling work its way through her after she sipped the drink. But why would Dorea spike her drink?

Hermione squinted, trying to reduce the light coming in through her pupils as her head felt strange. Dorea asked her how her drink was. "Good as ever," she mumbled. Dorea was asking her if she was alright; was she?

Then her mind wandered over to her ex-boyfriend for some reason, and she kept picturing him with Lyra… why did she let him go off with her? And why did she care suddenly what they did together? She spoke out loud a bit, but stopped when Dorea seemed to be trying to get her to talk. She didn't trust the witch, so she let the subject drop. She was being absurd, anyway. She tried to change the subject but just felt herself falling deeper into confusion when Dorea said: "I'm in love with Riddle."

Hermione felt nothing. And not even an hour ago she had been snogging him, ready to finally be with him.  _What in Merlin's name?_ Hermione snapped out of her thoughts and looked up at the strange woman across from her. "I have to go." She stood and started putting on her gloves; though it had warmed up, it was still too chilly for her fingers that tended toward ice.

She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned around to see her lost expression reflected in Dorea's dark eyes. "Hermione, I wanted you to know first."

Hermione flicked her eyes up and down Dorea. "Tom doesn't love you, Dorea. Why are we talking about this?"

"I want to know if it's okay to pursue him. I know he doesn't care for me like I do for him."

It was such a strange conversation, and perhaps Hermione would have focused more on its oddities had her own brain not felt even more foreign to her. She didn't care if Dorea pursued him. She pictured them kissing, snogging, groping—nothing. "I don't care what you do, but I really need to go."

"Okay."

Hermione wandered away from the village and conjured a cushion to sit on, putting warming charms on herself and the gray seat.

She sighed, her breath slightly visible in front of her.  _Well, so much for winter ending._

Hermione heard soft crying behind her, steadily closing in on her. She considered moving before the person saw her but thought it might be too late, so she turned around to appraise her options.

It was Olive Hornby. She was wiping away tears as they fell with pink mittens. The imprecise method seemed more effective at spreading the tears than anything else, though. The usually irritating witch hadn't seen her yet, and Hermione could probably extricate herself from this interaction, but instead gave in and conjured another pillow next to her. "Would you like to sit?" She offered flatly.

Olive looked startled, but nodded. She seemed thrown off enough where she didn't make any snide comments, at least. "Thanks," she replied meekly. Hermione responded by hitting her with a warming charm. Olive half-smiled in response, but the effect was lost when her cries moved to sobs.

"What's wrong, Olive?" Hermione found herself asking. She told herself that she was trying to be a decent person, but in truth, she welcomed the distraction.

"It's M—Myrtle. She won't leave me alone. I've complained to the Ministry again, but they don't seem to be able to do much, or they just don't care."

"What does she do?"

"Just follow me around everywhere, reminding me that it's my fault that she's—" Any further words were muffled by Olive sobbing into her shirt sleeve.

Hermione awkwardly reached out and patted her. "Olive, you didn't hurt her. It's not your fault."

Olive scoffed. "I never  _hurt_ her? I hurt her every day. I know that oaf Hagrid killed her, but it doesn't make the guilt disappear. It doesn't change the fact that if she weren't there—if she weren't crying—she would still be here."

_Oh Merlin. If I hadn't been kissing Draco, Abraxas would still be alive. Perhaps this numbness with regards to Tom is delayed processing of what I should have known all along: that he killed again. Even though I told myself I wouldn't dare hope, I thought maybe he had changed. Instead he's killed another person years before he did in my timeline, and I'm partially to blame. Maybe loving only makes Tom more erratic and dangerous, and part of me knows that._

_But what about the remorse?_ , Hermione asked herself.  _I thought it was enough. I guess I don't know my heart as well as I thought I did._

Hermione turned to Olive. She didn't appear to need a response, though. She was steadily crying into her own lap.

After a while, Olive looked up, pushing away her curtain of hair to reveal eyes made somehow greener by her tears, as though they were plants that needed watering. "Thanks for listening." It was quiet; so quiet, that Hermione might have missed it if not for the distance they were from the hustle and bustle of Hogsmeade.

"Anytime." Hermione paused and bit her chapped lower lip before continuing. "You know it's okay to forgive yourself."

Olive smiled sadly. "I'm not trying to bury myself in my own guilt, Hermione. I keep trying to forget, but I can't. Myrtle won't let me."

"Have you tried apologizing?"

"Yes."

"And?"

Olive half-shrugged, her dejected expression conveying all she needed to. For Hermione's part, she felt the same. Just hours ago, she had been so hopeful, and now all she could feel was sorrow. There was no ghost haunting  _her_ ; so why did she feel this way, and so suddenly?

The two women walked back together silently, separating before they closed in on the village.


	31. Empty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincere apologies for the delay on this chapter! I hope you enjoy it. :)

Nothing was cleared up by the time Hermione slumped into the carriage to return to the castle. She steadily ignored the younger students who shared the carriage, who were seemingly intimidated by her. Normally Hermione would have tried to be friendly, but she didn't have the mental energy for that now.

Draco kept bubbling up into her thoughts, and she had to admit what she felt— _jealousy_ —but she pushed it away. She needed to deal with Tom. She had promised to talk to him tonight in the common room, and though she had promised much more between the lines than mere conversation, she intended to at least keep one promise.

Hermione hopped out of the familiar carriage first, hurrying up to the castle. Her need to see Tom was distinct from how she felt earlier: it was not lust; it was not love; it was a fierce urgency, a desperation to confront him and feel the things she had felt before, partly for him and partly because without those feelings it was as though she were less herself.

She intellectually understood that this was not his first murder; why should her heart feel differently? Why should it shut him out, and so suddenly?

"Tom." His back was the first thing she saw after stepping through (stumbling through, really) the portrait hole that led to their common room. Even as she said the name, just saw his back, even, her heart fell. Looking into his eyes made her want to break down into tears. They were the lively gray, the fire that she rarely saw; and when she did, she knew it was just for her. But she felt nothing. It was like her nerve endings had been burnt off while she was sleeping. Instead, the feelings had just disappeared while she was awake. It must have been because of Abraxas. He was different than the others. He was a person, someone she knew, not someone she had always known as a ghost or had simply heard about. He was a person.

Tom was kissing her as her thoughts raced, but it wasn't even a distraction. It was nothing. And the nothing didn't last long. "Hermione?"

She shrugged helplessly, feeling tears well up in her eyes—again. "I don't know, Tom."

"You seem different."

"I am." She nodded, slowly, calmly.

"What's going on?"

"I can't tell you." Tom couldn't know Abraxas had died. Earlier today, maybe her emotions might have overtaken her, but now, if anything, her emotions led her to the same conclusion as her head:  _Tom can't know_. It would put Draco in unnecessary danger.

"What happened to telling me everything?"

"Offers don't last forever."  _And neither did we._

"What about earlier?"

"I was caught up in the moment."

"And now?" He was stone cold, like when she had gotten back from break, but somehow worse. Less emotional. They matched, except she wasn't acting.

"I'm not."

A spark; something shifted in Tom. "I said I wasn't giving up—"

"There's nothing to give up on."

"Say it again." Tom grabbed the sides of her face forcefully and yanked her face up to his so that he could look directly into her eyes.

She said it again. And he went to his room wordlessly.

* * *

_"There's nothing to give up on."_ Tom had begun to distrust his ability to read when Hermione was lying, but he had to admit to himself that it hadn't failed him yet. And every inch of him told him that she was being truthful. There was nothing between them anymore as far as she was concerned. There was nothing to give up on. He had stared into those brown eyes and they betrayed nothing.

But something about the interaction had bothered him. There was something familiar about her eyes, as though he had seen them before. Tom shook his head forcefully as if to clear it.  _Of course you've seen them before, you've known her for months now_ , Tom scolded himself. But still there was a part of him that told him those eyes were familiar from something else—someone else.

And how could he square tonight with what happened earlier? He could feel such a depth of emotion from her just hours before that appeared to have just been cut off. Hermione as much as admitted that—when he asked what was going on, she implicitly admitted there was  _something_  when she said she couldn't tell him.

And so Tom was back to square one: find out what Hermione was hiding. Everything, down to whatever happened today. Because he wasn't giving up. Even if Hermione truthfully didn't think there was anything left, Tom knew differently.

* * *

Dorea was no Legilimens, but she could see her success with Hermione by her facial expressions in response to Dorea's questioning. Hermione was too thrown off by the sudden change in emotions to disguise her shock, or her complete lack of feeling when it came to Tom. Given her openness during the rest of the conversation, Dorea felt she could trust that emptiness. It was real.

The plan had worked, but it only truly worked if no one ever found out. If Draco found out, his happiness would be marred. If Hermione found out, she would fight against it, and destroy her happiness along with Draco's. As for Tom—he would destroy everyone, and their happiness.

Dorea had heard about Legilimency; she had spent enough time around talented dark wizards to know some who could do it. Because she was shrewd, Dorea knew that Tom did not know how yet. If he did, he would have used it on her. But there were some people in her life that could do it; and if they could, Tom would learn. He was too bright not to.

But Dorea was determined that Tom's talents would not ruin her plans. She was not naïve enough to think that Tom would never wrest the information from her brain. Dorea was already on his radar. Her plan had never depended on Tom's lack of ability, for then it would be doomed to fail. It depended on the depth of her penchant for secrecy and sacrifice: she was the only one that knew. And she would take the information to her grave.

* * *

After the conversation with Tom, Hermione was drained, but there was something else she needed to do. And off she went, headed for the Slytherin common room. As Head, she had passwords to every common room (except Ravenclaw; it was assumed a Head from any house could solve the riddle, though).

"Regius," Hermione said breathlessly. Reluctantly, she was let into the bustling common room. Everyone looked up to see who the intruder was, and most eyed her unabashedly as she confidently strolled up the stairs to the boys' dormitory. (The girls' dormitory entrance was marked by an intricate design of a poisonous flower, so she assumed the other side was the boys').

She hesitated; which room was Draco's? She hoped for the best and tried to final room, opening the door tentatively.

Draco was sitting in his bed, facing the door. He was the first to see her and couldn't hide his shock. Avery and Lestrange turned and leered at her.

"Abraxas. A word?"

Draco merely nodded, following silently behind her as they walked past the stunned faces of the Slytherin common room, down the dark corridors surrounding said room, and up the many staircases to the seventh floor. Draco didn't ask where they were headed. It was obvious.

Hermione did the pacing in front of the room. It seemed only appropriate, as she had led them there. Her thoughts were jumbled, so she wasn't sure what the room held until she opened it.

It was a bleak gray corridor, notable only in the seemingly innocuous bulletin board. The remarkable thing wasn't the board: it was the insignificant items hung on it, that altogether made it clear that this was the corridor from their sixth year at Hogwarts. And it was also the corridor where they had first kissed.

"Hermione, what is the meaning of this?" Draco asked, seemingly annoyed at his companion.

"I just let the room do its magic," Hermione said simply. She felt like she were seventeen years old again, in many ways, mostly in the warm feeling she had right now from Draco. It was steady and consuming, rather than fleeting and attached only to their memories. She loved him again, somehow.

"Why here?"

"It was where we first kissed."

Draco snaked his arms around her waist, exhaling deeply as their foreheads touched. She reached out and touched his chest to feel his heart pounding erratically.

"I know that, Hermione," he whispered. "Salazar, you think I don't know that? Why here? Why are you torturing me?"

"I'm not trying to torture you," Hermione responded in a soft voice, brushing a longer hair away from his pointed cheekbone. He didn't respond, waiting instead. Hermione took a deep breath in before she said what she need to say: what Draco needed to hear. "I love you."

"I know, but—" Hermione silenced him with an ungraceful thumb over his lower lip.

"I'm in love with you."

It was like she had pressed a button to activate Draco. Suddenly, her legs were being lifted by each of Draco's hands, wrapping them around him and slamming her against that bleak gray wall. His lips trailed the portion of her chest left exposed by her thick v-neck sweater, whispering incoherently before his fake blue eyes met her brown ones as he said, "in case it was ever unclear, I am madly in love with you, Hermione Granger."

Hermione pulled Draco into a fierce kiss. The strange mix of salt and peppermint was like a drug that she never wanted out of her system.

* * *

Tom was never a person to sit idly by when he wanted something. That's why he went to find his favorite person to practice Legilimency with—or rather, on: Abraxas. But when he entered his old stomping grounds, he received more curious glance than he was accustomed to.

Brushing them off, Tom walked up the steps toward the last door at the end of the hall for the seventh years' room. When he opened the door, however, he found only Avery and Lestrange.

"Where's Malfoy?" Tom asked gruffly.

The two exchanged a look that Tom did not like.  _"Tell me now."_

The two of them stumbled over their words for a minute before Tom lazily bound them each to a post on their respective beds. "Perhaps I was unclear. Tell me where he is." The thing is, Tom already knew the answer. But it still hurt when each told him that he had left with Hermione.

What did she see in Abraxas? And how in Salazar's name did his follower find enough courage to defy him after facing near death? What was he missing?

As his questions mingled with each other, multiplying as if breeding, his need to practice his craft grew. He casually, silently flung a bed in front of the door, coupling it with a simple locking charm to ensure no one would disturb him.

"Avery. Lestrange. Both of you have displeased me tonight," Tom spoke coolly. "Yet I can be very forgiving." Tom intentionally hovered over the last word, intentionally speaking it like a threat. He could see that both men received the message. "I am going to push into each of your minds, one at a time, and I want you to push back. If you do not, I will punish you." Avery looked deeply uncomfortable, swallowing and writhing nervously.

Tom turned to him first.  _"Legilimens!"_ He could taste his fear immediately. Pathetic. Tom wordlessly performed the Torture Curse. "What did I just tell you, Avery?" Avery was spitting up blood, coughing too much to respond. Tom repeated the Torture Curse. "Speak when I address you, Avery."

"Yes, my Lord," Avery choked out.

"What did I tell you?"

"To fight back."

"And did you?"

"To the best of my ability to fight against you, my Lord."

_"Liar._ I expect more, Avery— _Legilimens!"_ And that is how the night continued. Tom turned to torturing for punishment to torturing for fun as the night wore on, painfully aware of Abraxas's conspicuous absence from his dormitory.


	32. Breakthrough

Two weeks and no progress. Avery was in the hospital wing with "nightmares"—all his followers were too weak to be of assistance. As for Abraxas, Tom didn't know why he hadn't killed him yet. As he was no longer a follower, though, it seemed absurd to practice anything with him. Abraxas would know when he perfected the art (or even pushed past the current barrier of being unable to see past the present) because Abraxas would be his second target.

Hermione would be the first.

For the moment, though, he would have to settle for torturing Abraxas occasionally—only three times in the last week, though each session had been personally satisfying. And Tom was done speculating with Hermione. He would have her back, but first he needed information. And she might have foreseen more than he gave her credit for; the veritaserum was nearly perfected, and might be ready before he could see for himself.

That's why he was spending a little more extracurricular time than normal—even for him—working on the delicate potion. Praise from Slughorn was not his object, no matter what the imbecile thought.  _"Don't worry, m'boy,"_ Slughorn had told him earlier that day,  _"I'll put in a good word for you with the Headmaster."_  As though Tom needed to stay late to have Slughorn wrapped around his finger. What a pathetic man.

And so Tom was leaving the brewing station behind the potions classroom at nearly one o'clock in the morning when he almost ran into Dorea Black, who was looking much less scared than the last time he had seen her. Well he could fix that; he was running on a short fuse these days, anyway.

"Tom Riddle," she spoke his name like it was one word; her voice held a false determination that he didn't have patience for. It sounded as though she was been building toward this confrontation.

Tom sighed. He had no interest in this interaction. "Clearly you've been rehearsing whatever you have to say in your head so go ahead and say it," Tom greeted her in a bored voice. As an afterthought, he wordlessly levitated her into an empty classroom and tied her to a chair.

"You killed Abraxas. I just wanted you to know that I know."

Tom reflexively buried his shock and any other emotions that might have been written on his face were he less controlled. Tom had just seen Abraxas earlier that day; but wouldn't the most logical explanation be that it wasn't Abraxas?

Tom resisted the urge to pace as his mind raced, not wanting to tip off the irritating girl tied up three feet from him.

Abraxas was certainly acting strangely enough. But who would it be? Someone using Polyjuice hourly? The most compelling proof for this new hypothesis was that he knew Black, at least, believed she was telling the truth.

"When did you last see Abraxas?" Tom asked, ensuring that Black didn't think he killed him in the last few hours.

"Weeks ago. I don't know the exact day." Her voice was confused; she obviously wasn't expecting this line of questioning.  _What was the girl expecting, coming and confronting him—a man she was terrified of? What was she after?_  Tom brushed the questions aside. First, he needed to find out as much as he could about Black's beliefs regarding Abraxas and the possible imposter. Then, he could deal with her motives (and with her).

"Who is posing as Abraxas?"

"I don't—I don't know."

"That's the first lie you've told, Black.  _Cruicio!"_ Tom broke it quickly, putting a silencing charm on the door and then repeating it before Black could finish her sigh of relief.

"Let's try this again. Who is posing as Abraxas?"

"I don't know."

Tom tortured her silently, letting the questioning drop memontarily as he turned his back to her. Hermione was with "Abraxas" now… that much was clear. She had barely been to their common room, and according to Avery and Lestrange, he was no longer staying in the room; it was obvious to Tom they were using the Room of Requirement—his room—as some sort of meeting place. He brushed that aside; this wasn't important right now.

If Abraxas weren't Abraxas, and Hermione was with—Abraxas 2, let's call him—then maybe she was with Abraxas 2 that night. And Abraxas was telling the truth when he was begging for his life… when Tom killed him. Maybe Abraxas 2 was the real problem; the real wedge between Tom and Hermione. And finding his identity would be the first step toward finding his motives… and his weaknesses.

_Perhaps Legilimency is like a Patronus… not that I could ever achieve one_ , Tom thought grimly to himself. He closed his eyes and pictured an unpleasant thought— _Hermione and Abraxas 2 in the library, kissing, his mouth moving to form "Granger,"_ —"LEGILIMENS!" Tom shouted at the top of his lungs.

He saw Black's widening brown eyes before he found himself vividly in her memory; it had been at the forefront of her mind but this level of detail was still a breakthrough for Tom.

_"Fine, we can just wait until your Polyjuice wears off,"_ Dorea haughtily told Abraxas (or someone who looked like him) in the memory. She had him tied up—just as she was now.

_"Good luck with that."_

_"And what is that supposed to mean? You think you're going to talk me into letting you go before the hour is up?"_

_"No, clearly you're going to do whatever you want, but there will be no change of my appearance. This is what I look like."_

_"So what are you saying, that you're his twin? I've known Abraxas since he was a child, and he doesn't have a twin."_

_"You might as well do whatever you're going to do because you won't believe my story regardless."_

_"Try me."_

_"First can I get a name now that we've established I'm not Abraxas?"_

Tom raised an eyebrow—not a student, then, if he were telling the truth. Frustratingly, Tom's ability to detect falsehoods didn't seem the translate to a memory.  _"Dorea. Dorea Black."_  The scene turned translucent momentarily, threatening to recede. Tom refocused his efforts on the memory; analysis must wait.

_"Let's see. I'm Abraxas's grandson from the future. I somewhat blindly went back in time to rescue Hermione from Riddle only to find that she is in love with him, and he killed Abraxas so Dumbledore asked me to take his place. I think that about sums it up."_

Black dropped her wand as Tom tried to retain everything he was hearing without pondering—he could sort it out later _. "Abraxas is dead?"_

_"Yes. I'm truly sorry you're finding out like this. Dumbledore insisted that there was no one Abraxas was close to who would want to attend the funeral. I should have known he was lying."_

_"He probably didn't know. Was it a nice funeral?"_ Black was crying. Pathetic.

_"It was."_

_"Was it just you there?"_

_"Dumbledore and Hermione were also there. It was at the Manor."_ Hermione knows?

Focus!

_"Good. He would have wanted that."_

_"That's what I thought. Malfoy pride goes back a long way."_

_"So you said you're his grandson? Then how are you here."_

_"Magic. I'm actually related to you, too."_

_"Am I your grandmother?"_ Tom sighed in frustration; Black was so easily distracted.

_"No. I'm sorry—I didn't mean to suggest—"_  And with his frustration the scene shook violently, nearly out of his grasp.

The next few lines were muffled, but Tom pushed his way back in, focusing on the task at hand, pushing out every other thought but his desire for the memory.

_"Draco."_ It was the first clear word.

_"So you and Hermione?"_

_"She's really fixated on Tom."_ Tom didn't expect those words, and thus couldn't push back the rush of satisfaction he felt upon hearing them.

And he felt himself yanked out of the memory.

Black's eyes were wide, her pupils dilated, and her expression frozen in horror.

Tom looked at the problem in front of him with irritation; he didn't care to deal with Black anymore, not even to torture her. He wanted to sort out what he had learned, but he couldn't let her go running around the castle; could he?

On the other hand, torturing her seemed to be of little help. She was obviously irritated at his supposed killing of Abraxas—Tom felt a twinge of emotion—and her behavior was erratic and unpredictable, if approaching him was any indication.

Killing another student, though, wasn't an option. If the memories were true, Dumbledore knew he had killed, and the man already suspected him for killing Myrtle. Could Dumbledore even cover another killing up?  _I could give her to the vampires._

Tom shook his head. It was too risky. Black wasn't Abraxas; she had too many people invested in her. The Potters would be clamoring to find her, and her family would be no better (and far more ruthless in discovering the truth).

No.

"If you're going to kill me, just do it," Black spat back at him.

"I'm not going to kill you, you pathetic girl."

Confusion highlighted her aristocratic features.

"You deserve much worse.  _Imperio,"_ he whispered, noting with delight the fear that flashed in her eyes before her face formed a blank mask, fully under his control.

* * *

"Hermione." Long fingers traced her face. She tried to open her eyes to see him; she had missed those fingers, but she had also missed looking upon his gray eyes, alive only for her. But he pushed her eyes closed and she felt fabric against the sensitive skin behind her eyelids.

"I've waited too long." And the sensual lilt of his already dangerously deep voice was too much.

"Merlin, Tom, I missed you," she practically moaned against him.

"You have no idea, Hermione." And she couldn't control the yelp of surprise as his hands roughly pushed hers back against the cold wall behind her. Why was it so cold? Where was she, again?

But his teeth roughly broke the skin on her neck, and she could feel the cold air against the moisture there, not knowing if it was Tom's saliva or her blood. But she didn't care, didn't care at all as her fingers started to numb from the pressure against her wrists.

And slowly Hermione awoke, seeing a blurry Draco hovering directly above her as she slipped back into consciousness. The unsatisfied feeling of lust remained from her dream, interwoven by a sharp sense of disappointment. But as she analyzed the emotion, it faded. The more she thought, the more it eluded her until she found herself fully focused on Draco. The lust came back mixed with a rush of affection.

"It sounded like you were having a good dream," Draco teased, his warm breath tickling her lips.

"Yes," Hermione breathed, confused. She felt nothing for Tom—nothing—and yet the dream…

"Care to reenact it?"

Her attention fully occupied, Hermione smiled and nodded. Dreams were just dreams, after all, perhaps a vestige of her previous love for him. The love that had been extinguished upon learning of his latest kill.

Those thoughts receded as Draco languidly unbuttoned her blouse—no, it was his blouse—tracing and lightly kissing the newly exposed skin. She noted the contrast from her dream, but felt no emotion regarding it. Once her shirt was fully open, he continued to explore, moving from her belly button to her nipples, pausing there and surprising her with his a light brush of his teeth as she gasped in surprise. He smirked, emboldened, as she pulled him closer against her.

Yes, dreams were just dreams.


	33. Haze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally, a VERY delayed update. Thanks to all of you who continue to follow this story!

A good memory charm was a delicate task; too far and the object of the spell could lose all memory, even sanity. Too little and the charm would be useless, leaving them slightly confused at best.

Luckily, Tom didn't  _need_ a good memory charm. He just needed a powerful one, be damned if it damages the object.

Just as well; precision could be difficult when channeled through an Imperius Curse. He just hoped that the witch would be powerful enough to really destroy her mind. Otherwise he might have to do it in her stead, which would be something he would rather avoid. Either way, though, whoever found her would be able to easily see the last charm she performed:  _Obliviate._

But she was struggling. Wriggling around as though if she could somehow leave her skin, the Imperius Curse would leave, too. Not so. The struggling was good; Tom knew he would win, but it meant she was powerful. Maybe powerful enough where she could do this odious task herself.

He had considered having her kill Draco. He really, really considered it, telling her to shut up filtered through the lens of his Imperius Curse while he could think about the prospect. He had been right the first time; Abraxas had no family.

But it was still messy. And there wasn't enough satisfaction in it. It felt like the wrong way to make his way back to Hermione.

Tom continued to think through the topic as he continued to press his new command deeper and deeper, telling her over and over again to destroy her mind.

He saw the fight leave her eyes as the curse infected her.

Tom was glad he had the foresight to silence the classroom as Dorea screamed  _Obliviate_  at the top of her lungs with her wand pointed at her head like a muggle gun.

When he heard the "O," Tom disillusioned himself.

* * *

"Hermione," Draco sighed, "this is the third time  _tonight_  I've heard you say his name."

Hermione awkwardly shifted around, pulling at the hair collected at the nape of her neck while her head bent sideways and her bottom lip was wedged in between her teeth. "Perhaps you should start sleeping better?" She chuckled nervously. Draco didn't, leaning against the wall next to his side of the bed and staring at her, hard.

"I don't know, Draco," she offered, retreating into her shoulders like a small turtle.

"Are you lying to me about your feelings?"

"No!"

"Are you lying to yourself?"

Hermione had asked herself the same question following Abraxas's death, but there was no sense of deceit or wishful thinking—she wasn't with Draco because he was better. She was with him because she wanted to be. Instead of voicing all this, she just shook her head.

"I think you should leave."

"Draco…"

"As you said, I need to sleep." He didn't seem angry, just resigned and exhausted.

Hermione slipped out, tears streaming down her face. She sobbed into her pillow once she reached her room, not able to fall back asleep until she had calmed enough to steady her breathing.

As she slipped into sleep, she lamented how haywire her emotions had been lately. It wasn't like her.

* * *

Tom left Dorea lying in the hallway with her speech incoherent and directed at no one in particular. He slipped back into the potions lab for some pepper-up potion Slughorn left lying around. This night wasn't over and it likely wouldn't be before the sun came up.

After downing the unpleasant potion, Tom slunk off to his old common room, beelining for his bedroom.

He woke Lestrange and told him to check the empty classroom across from Slughorn's lab.

"Dorea is there," he explained in a faux distressed tone. "She's damaged."

"Damaged…?"

Tom pretended to be choked up in case Lestrange's memory was viewed. "I couldn't stand to stay and check the extent. Can you? And if her memory seems permanently damaged, you'll need to take her to Madam Ward."

Tom searched Lestrange's eyes as he relayed the instructions and saw a flash of understanding that told Tom he knew what was necessary: ensure her memory is completely gone before enlisting help.

"I understand, Riddle." Tom suppressed his grin. The use of his last name instead of his title confirmed it.

"Thank you, I wish I could…"

"I know, Riddle." Lestrange awkwardly patted him on the back before slipping out.

Confident Lestrange would take care of the task, Tom crossed the dark common room and broke the charm on the witches' staircase quickly and easily—it wasn't the first time—making his way into Dorea's room. The lack of women in her year certainly made things easier.

He quietly sent a serious stunner at her obnoxious roommate and cast a Silencing Spell at the door before ransacking Dorea's room.

There was little of use. Tom took three textbooks he didn't recognize in case they prove important. Otherwise, there was a journal sealed with what Tom determined was a blood ward. Frustrated, he threw the journal across the wall.

Tom paced across the room, trying to decide whether to take it; it would surely be missed and he couldn't open it. But what if it contained information about…?

Tom paused, breaking into a genuine smile.

He could break it.  _"I'm actually related to you, too."_

And he could confront Draco in the process. Things really were coming together.

* * *

As an exhausted but exhilarated Tom Riddle returned to his lodgings, he heard movement from Hermione's room. Tom paused; Hermione hadn't been home in ages. He scoffed at himself for thinking the word "home," but had no feeling behind it. It was home.

Almost on autopilot, Tom quickly stopping into his room, heavily warding Dorea's effects. He then uncorked and used his previously made potion to break the wards on Hermione's door, pushing it open and leaning against the doorframe, just for a moment.

She was thrashing about in her bed, her curls even more wild than usual. He could only make out her form through the stream of light filtering in through the common area, but it was enough to just highlight her, leaving the surrounding room shrouded in darkness.

Tom didn't know how long he watched her, almost falling asleep himself despite the uncomfortable prodding of the doorjamb. But he jerked awake and upright. He must have heard her wrong. But then she repeated it: his name.  _Tom._

It didn't sound like she were arguing with him her dream, nor did her voice lack emotion as it did the last time they have truly spoken. It sounded familiar. A small voice in the back of his head told him it sounded like love.

Tom glanced back at the common area, eyes landing on the door leading to his bedroom. He should go back. Interfering with Hermione's dream would have no benefit. He needed to polish his Legilimency skills; he needed to find out what happened.

But a stronger part of him kept thinking back to a yellowing page in a book where the spine was so cracked it was hard to make out the title. His photographic memory kept running over the same line.  _Legilimency through touch rather than eye contact is possible. When performed when the victim is subconscious the spell is even simpler than using eye contact on an awake subject._

Tom hadn't really thought through his options further when he was by her bedside, closer than he had been to the comfortable bed since she had been away. He remembered sleeping there, angry and churlish but not without hope. He still wasn't without hope for them, but it was getting harder seeing her with Malfoy and knowing she wasn't even sleeping in her bed anymore.

Tom examined the sleeping form beneath him;  _where could he touch her where she wouldn't wake up?_ He studied the problem objectively; he also needed to be in a position that he wouldn't slip out of accidentally if he got involved with an argument with Hermione in her subconscious (which was almost certain to happen).

Tom levitated himself slightly until he was horizontal above the empty part of Hermione's bed. He slowly lowered himself so as to move the bed as little as possible. Carefully, he moved over to his side, now facing Hermione.

He sucked a breath in. He slowly closed in on her until he was so close that he could feel her breath on his nose, and had to hold himself back from fully closing his arms around her.  _What in Salazar's name am I doing? This is pathetic. I will claim her when I am ready, when I am powerful enough._ Tom prevented himself from groaning in frustration.  _I'm just gathering information_ , he reasoned with himself.

Gently—in order to not wake her—he placed his right hand on her stomach. He had considered placing his hand on hers, but was concerned that the link would be broken too easily if he shifted at all. She stopped thrashing around for a moment, and he held his breath as he wondered if she would wake. She didn't. Her breathing deepened again.

Tom carefully pulled his wand out of his back pocket, pointing it to the point of connection between him and Hermione.  _"Legilimens."_ It was a whisper, but it was enough.

_Well, this isn't what I was expecting_ , Tom thought to himself as he sharply inhaled.

Hermione and him—or a dream version of him—were wrapped up in each other on an ugly brown couch he had never seen before. Her head was buried in his chest and her shoulders were shaking. She was crying.

Tom swallowed, trying to collect himself. "Hermione," he called out loudly and clearly. He was ignored. Despite the fact that the scene above him was happening—in a sense—in real time, he was unable to interact with it, just like a memory. But this certainly wasn't a memory; it didn't seem familiar.

He tried to walk over to "him" and see if he could join with his form. He couldn't. Now he was just standing awkwardly over the pair. He reached out; his hand went right through other-him. No sensation whatsoever.

He could hear muffled words from Hermione, but couldn't make out anything. Tom leaned in closer, so that his ear was almost aligned with that of his other self. It was disconcerting, but he could hear.

"…and it's all covered, like I couldn't see three feet in front of me if I tried," she was saying.

There was a long silence. "Like a snowstorm?" Dream Tom asked.

"Yes. But there is no clarity, even through the flakes."

"Can you see me now?"

"Yes, but"—Hermione hesitated—"usually no." It sounded difficult for her to admit.

"Why don't you tell me when you can't see me?"

"Because I can't see myself, either." And Hermione was crying again, this time with renewed force. The room shifted slightly as a red haze started to choke the dream version of him, who was coughing while Hermione continued to cry.

Outside the dream, Tom let go, startled and unsure of how to interpret what he had just seen, but hoping, somewhat inexplicably, that he would find answers through Draco's blood.

Sleepily, his fingers laced through Hermione's without any thought of re-entering her dreams.

* * *

Draco winced as he left the castle the next morning; the sun was bright and seemed to bounce off the trees and the ground to burrow its way into his eyes.

He had been meeting Lyra quite often for Quidditch practice. Combined with his House Quidditch practices—and Hermione's frustrating sleep-talking—sleep had been largely eluding him, making the brightness of the sky oppressive.

Through the light, he saw a blot of dark hair on the pitch otherwise bathed in sunlight.

"Lyra!"

"Hi, fake Abraxas," she said in a dreamy voice.

Draco placed his hands above his eyebrows like a visor as he neared the strange girl.

"You don't have your broom," he observed out loud.

"No."

Frustrated, Draco kicked the grass. "I thought we were practicing this morning."

"No," she repeated.

"Then why am I here?"

"I have a gift for you." Her hands were clasped together, fingers of her left hand curling around the ridge of her right hand and vice versa. It looked like something was moving in between her pale hands.

He raised his eyebrows but she simply looked at him with wide eyes.

"May I?" He asked, waiting for her to nod before placing his broom on the grass and then unfurling her fingers slowly. As he peeled back her index finger and middle finger, he saw an ever-moving golden snitch nestled in between her hands.

"You're giving me your snitch?" He forgot all about his previous annoyance. He had known Lyra for a short time, but long enough to know how treasured her snitch was.

"You're going to need it," she said in the same flat tone. For the first time that morning, he realized her tenuous smile was just that, not the light effortless one she normally wore.

"But you're our seeker."

Lyra's head shook ever-so-slightly.

"You're not?"

"That's you."

"But—but you said you're better than me," Draco responded, trying to keep the mood light.

"That's definitely true." A flash of an actual smile. "But I have to get married."

"Married? I didn't even know you were dating anyone."

She shrugged as though it were a small detail she left out. "I'm betrothed. I had planned to extricate myself from the obligation."

"And you changed your mind?"

"I changed my plans," Lyra responded with a pained expression. "Will you take it?"

"Won't you want it regardless? Even if you're not playing professionally."

"I want you to have it." She opened her hands just enough for him to catch it in his own. The snitch continued to hum around in his hands.

"It likes you."


	34. The Scream

Though the walls surrounding Hermione's room were thicker than she was accustomed to with her Gryffindor dorm, they weren't impervious. Hearing noise, she tried to turn over and go back to sleep. As the sound seemed to grow, she grunted and buried herself under her pillow, twisting around on her side and flipping one leg over her blankets.

But it wasn't what was going on outside her room that caused her to finally awake. As she flipped over, she noticed that the sheets next to her were slightly folded over—as if someone had left the bed and not bothered to smooth over the blankets with their exit. At first her mind drifted to Draco and hope swelled in her chest that he had forgotten their row from just hours ago, but then she realized he wouldn't able to break in.

Tom.

But why would he have been in her bed the middle of the night?

She shook her head as if that would somehow erase the line she had drawn connecting the dots, and told herself that she must have left the bed and forgotten to smooth over the sheets around her in her troubled state last night.

Hermione rose and slowly begun to dress. Now that she was up, she might as well see what was happening outside her dorm.

She tried to fix her hair, frowning in her mirror as her reflection seemed to mock her attempts to smooth it down. Sighing, she buttoned her cardigan, effectively giving up. As she lazily finished getting ready, the buzz in the hallway was cut with a single high-pitched shriek.

She bolted out of her room and then the common room, wand in hand.

The hallway was a sight.

A Slytherin girl Hermione vaguely recognized was down on her knees in the middle of the hallway, crumpled up against herself as she sobbed. Hermione felt it was a safe guess that she was the source of the scream.

Other students were huddled around her and another girl in a sort of semi-circle a few feet away, seemingly in a half-hearted attempt to give the two witches space. As Hermione approached, she recognized the calmer one as Olive Hornby.

"Olive, what's going on?" Hermione asked, her voice wavering slightly. It was difficult not to be somewhat affected by the sheer despair radiating off the Slytherin.

"Rose just found out what happened to Dorea—have you heard?"

"No," Hermione responded in a small voice, remembering Tom's eyes searing through her when he witnessed the cold exchange between her and Dorea in the library.

"What happened?"

"Now isn't a good time, Hermione. I need to—" Olive gestured toward Rose.

Hermione nodded and walked past them, pushing through the crowd. She didn't consciously know where she was going, but her feet led her to the hospital wing.

The wing was sealed, the always-open door closed, its bronze designs that she had never noticed mocking her. She leaned against the door and sunk down, her mind cycling through the worst possibilities.  _Maybe she's just sick_ … but the scream and the closed door told another story entirely.

* * *

The first rays of light were streaming through the tall windows of the Headmaster's office. Tom fixed his face into a worried mask as Dippet made his way around the large desk and settled into his seat.

"First, Mr. Riddle, I would like to thank you for bringing Ms. Black's condition to Mr. Lestrange's attention." Tom had his head hung down in a picture of a distraught student, but glanced up through his lashes at Dippet to assess the situation. There was no suspicion in the old man's face. Perfect.

"I regret not taking her the hospital wing myself. I just couldn't… seeing her like that, I…" Tom trailed off, wanting to give as little detail as possible that he would have to remember to make his lies consistent.

"That's quite understandable, Mr. Riddle. What I want to ask you about is one of your prior roommates: Mr. Malfoy."

Tom kept his features schooled. He had expected a line of questioning about his whereabouts the prior evening when Dippet had called him to the office, and though he had been surprised that any suspicion had been cast his way, Tom had attributed it to Dumbledore. But perhaps it wasn't him who Dippet suspected of foul play.

"Yes, sir?"

"Mr. Lestrange tells me that Mr. Malfoy has rarely been in their shared room recently, including last night. I know you no longer live there, but have you had an opportunity to observe the same behavior?"

Tom wanted to laugh at that question;  _what an abominable questioning technique!_ Dippet should have asked him what he knew without telling him what Lestrange already said. Normally, he would find throwing the new Malfoy behind the bars of Azkaban a wonderful prospect, but he needed to access him to acquire his blood, and he couldn't do that while Draco was under investigation or after he was put away. It was obvious that the Black family wanted a head on a spike and he did not want to do anything to put himself in the line of their rage. After all, eventually he would need their support to bring his plans to fruition. There was also the pesky fact that Draco was privy to information about Abraxas, and that his mere existence was evidence that the real Abraxas was missing at best.

"I have not seen for myself, Professor Dippet."

"I am sure you are aware that Mr. Malfoy was betrothed to Ms. Black. What do you know of the circumstances of the betrothal ending and how they felt about each other before last night?" Dippet looked deeply uncomfortable while asking Tom about two students' intimate relationship, confirming Tom's thoughts that the Black family must have already begun to apply pressure.

Tom's mind raced, and decided quickly that painting Malfoy as having no feelings for the girl in the hospital wing was the best course of action. Otherwise, there was a much uglier picture of a jealous ex taking what no longer belonged to him. "Abraxas broke off the betrothal. He was not interested in Ms. Black, and did not wish to marry her. As far as I know, they've been distant ever since."

"Thank you, Mr. Riddle. You've been very helpful." Dippet was obviously dismissing him.

"Sir, I apologize, but may I inquire as to the state of Ms. Black's health?" Tom thought that would be natural enough for him to know, and he did want confirmation that he was done with the irritating girl.

"Of course, Mr. Riddle. I don't have good news. She will be transferred to St. Mungo's soon, but there's little hope of a full recovery."

"What happened?"

"That is what everyone wants to know," Dippet responded, looking tired and slightly annoyed.

Tom nodded. "Please let me know if I can be of further assistance, sir."

"Thank you, Mr. Riddle."

* * *

Hermione didn't know how long she had been sitting there as she felt a familiar arm slink around her, pulling her against his chest.

She didn't move; aching with the warring feelings inside her of warm familiarity and the familiar ice pressing against her chest, reminding her that she no longer loved the man next to her.

"Tom," she greeted him stiffly, jerking away from his grasp and turning to face him.

"Hermione," he said smoothly. His mask was firmly in place, but he seemed less troubled then he had been lately. Perhaps he was moving on. It was probably for the best.

Her mind, distracted with thoughts of Dorea, drifted back to her bed that morning. "Were you in my bed last night?"

A cocked eyebrow and no response.

"Tom?" She pressed.

"Yes."

Hermione wrinkled her nose in disapproval. "Tom…" she trailed off, her voice sympathetic. "It's over."

"You said my name." He studied her face, as though deciding something. "I think your resolve is weaker in your sleep."

"Draco has said the same thing. I don't know what it is," she admitted. "I feel no conflict right now, looking at you."

Tom twitched; he actually  _twitched_  and her heart went out to him, but only platonically.

"I'll figure it out."

"I'm not a puzzle, Tom. I'm a person, and my feelings have changed."

"You are a puzzle of a person."

Hermione sighed, deeming further argument useless.

"So what did you do this time?" Hermione asked, gesturing behind her to the closed door she had been propped up against.

"I don't know what you mean."

"Something horrible has often happened to Dorea. You have nothing to do with it?"

"Why would I hurt Dorea?"

"Not a no," Hermione observed, her tone bored.

Tom shrugged, leaning forward to kiss her forehead. "Tom…" She begun.

"We'll speak about this and everything else once I put you back together, Hermione."

Her shoulders slouched, and she nearly laughed at realizing that she was feeling overwhelming pity for the future Dark Lord. Still, she reminded him: "I'm not broken."

"We'll see," Tom said cryptically. "I need you to do something for me."

Hermione shot him a questioning glance. "And why would I help you?"

Tom chuckled—not the rich, textured one that used to send shivers down her spine, but a laugh jaded and forced that reminded her more of Voldemort than the man she had gotten to know. "I know you wouldn't help me unless there was something in it for you right now, Hermione. You have made that abundantly clear. But I think your little infatuation might mean that our interests are aligned. Can we talk somewhere more private?"

Hermione felt a spark of anger at the characterization of her feelings for Draco as "infatuation," but was intrigued enough not to comment on it.

Despite her changed feelings and the strange edge to his voice, she followed him without hesitation, confident that he would never hurt her.

"So?" Hermione asked, her eyes drooping slightly from her disrupted sleep.

"Dippet suspects Draco. You need to say you were with him all night. Get the message to him, too. That was all."

Hermione gaped, her voice coming out slightly strangled. _"Draco?!"_

Tom lunged at her, his right arm pulling her closer and his left hand covering her mouth. "I didn't realize I needed a silencing spell, Hermione. Can we discuss this like we are of age?"

Hermione groaned at his condescending tone but nodded.

"How much do you know?" She was emotional—shaking, in fact—more out of fear than concern about his feelings. It was strange; it was a scene she had played over so many times in her mind.  _How would he react? Would he still love her? Did he ever love her?_

But now—now it just felt like she was watching a movie. Someone else was talking to the man she had been so desperately in love with.

How could one person's death change everything so much?

Tom considered her question for a moment. "I know Draco is a time traveler who tried to rescue you from me. I assume you are also a time traveler. I will find out more about the circumstances."

He leaned in now, his calm façade dropping. "And you might think you're rescued, but no one can ever keep you away from me."

Her breath caught and for seconds she felt that if she just  _reached out_ , she could feel for him again. As though it were just out of her reach…

And then he moved away, and so did the thought, such an odd thought, because she loved  _Draco_ , not Tom.

* * *

Tom descended into the dungeons, seeking out Lestrange. He would have to handle the matter delicately: praise him for performing an odious task, but scold him for putting ideas into Dippet's head that he did not want—namely, that Draco might be a suspect.

For now, he shoved his conversation with Hermione out of his head, pleased that he had full confirmation now that she, too, was a time traveler. Her knowledge about him made sense, though it was a bit troubling that even someone in the future knew his deepest secrets. He felt less concern than he normally would, though. Soon, he would be able to penetrate her mind; he had already succeeded once. Plans were finally aligning.

When Tom found Lestrange alone in his dorm, he briefly told him how pleased he was with how he handled the Black girl. Lestrange was clearly a little too satisfied with himself, so Tom quickly went to the actual purpose of the conversation: "You need to scale back whatever you said about Malfoy."

"My Lord, I only thought that, given his recent behavior, and to divert suspicion from you—"

Tom cut him off. "If I wanted Malfoy in Azkaban for this crime, do you think I would have any problem achieving that?"

"No, my Lord."

"There is something I need to  _extract_ from him," Tom offered by way of explanation. He knew Lestrange was feeding off being his new favorite, and wanted him to remain fiercely loyal. The best way to do so was to explain to him that "Abraxas" was still out of his good graces, but Tom didn't want to explain exactly how much he had turned on the blonde.

"Information," Lestrange mused.

_Blood_ , Tom corrected internally.  _Likely a significant amount._

Externally, he nodded curtly.


	35. Blood

Hermione swallowed nervously as she climbed the spiral staircase to Dippet's office. It didn't have the warm feeling it had when Dumbledore occupied it; instead, the aura around it was foreboding.

She had debated coming up here on her own accord—as Head Girl, she had the password. But she couldn't help but suspect that Tom was being untruthful toward her regarding Draco being implicated in Dorea's predicament, and she didn't want anything she said to ignite that suspicion.

Hermione had conveyed the conversation to Draco briefly; she had originally planned on telling him what Tom knew but his anxiety level spiked just from the knowledge that he might be under investigation and she couldn't add to it.  _Besides_ , she thought bitterly,  _we've had no time to be alone._

Ever since Draco had essentially sent her out of the Room of Requirement, they hadn't slept next to each other. It had been three days but it felt like a lifetime. Last night, she had tried to enter the Room only to be denied, and had cried silently against the stone with the knowledge that Draco must have told the Room not to allow her entry. It  _hurt._

But despite her misgivings, just a couple days after Tom had warned her, she received a summons at breakfast to meet with Dippet. There was no reason listed, but Hermione knew immediately it was about Draco.

"Ms. Prewett, so nice to see you," Dippet greeted her.

Hermione put on her best fake smile as she sat down across from the cold headmaster. "Hello, Headmaster. How are you?"

"Quite well, quite well. I apologize in advance, but I need to ask you some personal questions."

Hermione kept her smile and nodded, her stomach churning inside with the knowledge that she was about to tell a professor that she had slept in the same room as another student. The side of her that was eager to please was fiercely rejecting the notion.

"I understand you have been seeing Abraxas Malfoy… romantically."

_Merlin, Dippet already can't meet my eye._ "Yes, sir."

"And how long has that been happening?" Dippet appeared to ask his desk this question as that was where his gaze was directed.

"Well, we went on a date several months ago, but did not start seriously dating until this semester." She felt awkward mentioning the awful date with the now deceased Abraxas, but anything that could add legitimacy to their relationship was a plus in this instance.

"And"—there was a long pause—"I must ask where you've been sleeping."

Hermione struggled to maintain her composure. "For the last couple weeks, I've been sleeping in the Room of Requirement."

"Yes, a remarkable room to be sure," Dippet said more to himself. "Has anyone else—that is to say, have you been there alone?"

"No, sir."

Dippet paused, waiting for her to continue, but she bit her lip nervously instead, unable to hold back the waves of anxiety any longer.

"Who else was there?"

She almost said Draco, but caught herself. "Abraxas, sir."

"You understand that this is quite serious, Ms. Prewett."

Hermione hung her head. "Yes, sir."

"I will report the matter to your head of house. That will be all for now."

* * *

After Hermione spent twenty minutes squirming in her second chair of the day, she was able to let out a sigh of relief. The main punishment appeared to be Professor Merrythought giving her a stern talking-to. Other than that, she had detention helping the same professor grade papers, which she suspected Professor Merrythought knew wasn't much of a punishment for her.

Hermione went off to Arithmancy after the meeting and slid into her normal seat next to Draco.

Draco had a plastered-on bored look on his face and she could understood why; the moment she took her assigned seat, a chorus of whispers broke out in their relatively small class. Although the students in that class were less prone to gossip than most, the subject must have been too juicy. Somehow, everyone knew about what she—and presumably Draco—had revealed to Professor Dippet.

She made eye contact with Tom, who had an unreadable expression on his face. Hermione turned away, not sure what she was expecting. He was clearly blocking her out, and it was probably for the best.

Hermione kept coming back to his words from earlier that week:  _No one can keep you away from me._

She felt simultaneously sick and filled with anticipation when she thought about it, though she couldn't put her finger on  _why._

Putting the haunting sentence out of her mind once more, she turned to Draco and asked if they could talk after class, sensing that he would not want to do so now.

He nodded curtly.

* * *

Hermione grew nervous as the two of them approached the Room of Requirement, worried that somehow it was blocked off after news of their tryst got out.

It wasn't.

The Room wasn't what she was used to, though; she let Draco call the Room and it was a drab, gray thing that seemed to match the proverbial storm cloud over his head.

"What happened? Did you tell them we were together that night?"

Another curt nod.

"And? Were you sent to Slughorn for punishment?"

"No. I think that Dippet recognized that Slughorn would let it slide. He actually winked at me when I saw him in the hall, you know." Draco shook his head. "Dippet punished me himself. Detention every day for two months, excluding Quidditch practices, luckily."

"Who is the detention with?"

Draco shook his head again, more forcefully this time. "Some sort of joke, I guess. It's with Dumbledore."

"Well that shouldn't be too bad."

"We're not exactly on the best terms. He has questions that I've refused to answer. And now I'm to spend hours on end with him? I'm not looking forward to it."

Hermione tried to pat his awkwardly on the shoulder and he jerked away involuntarily.

"Draco…"

"I can't deal with this, Hermione, right now, I'm sorry. Give me some time to sort things out? You know I love you, it's just…"

"Just?" She asked, her voice cracking slightly as she suppressed her tears, her eyes burning.

"Time?"

He leaned her forehead against hers and she nodded against him, no longer able to hold the tears back.

* * *

"Draco Malfoy." The boy stopped dead in his tracks, and Tom could not only sense the fear as it rushed into every bone of his body, but he could feel it just as surely as the cold stone underneath his shoes. He had been concerned Hermione would ruin this moment—this overwhelming rush of triumph—by warning Draco that he knew. Strange that she didn't. Coupled with her presence in her own chambers for sleep, Tom hoped that perhaps there was trouble in paradise.

Either way, he had a mission to complete now that the Ministry was under his nose. The boy was clearly pathetic—he probably could have had Lestrange do the job even if his follower might be squeamish.

But this was personal.

"I don't believe I know whom you are referring to, my lord." The sentence was strung together several seconds too late to sound anything approaching natural, but Tom had to hand it to the slightly shaky wizard in front of him; he was able to keep his voice smooth.

"Apologies," Tom replied in a scathing tone that conveyed anything but an apology. "I know you like to go by your grandfather's name."

Draco didn't turn, opting to go for his wand instead. It was so close to his fingertips that he was almost touching it, but Tom was faster. Tom would  _always_ be faster.

The wand flew into his hand. It looked exactly like Abraxas's, but once Tom held it in his hand it was obvious that it was not the same wand; he had disarmed Abraxas more than enough times to know the feeling of that wand. It must have been a complicated glamour.

"What do you want, Voldemort?" Draco choked on his name, but spat it out regardless, the distaste evident on his tongue.

"Oh, Draco. Were you not taught to respect your elders?" Tom levitated Draco about two inches off the ground, using substantial force to shove him into an empty classroom. Fittingly, it was the same one that he had cornered Dorea in.

"What—what is this?" The fear was palpable now, and the wizard had somehow become even more white as he crumpled up onto a heap on the floor. He didn't bother sitting up or adjusting himself, just laying there, gazing in horror at the state of the room.

Tom had spent the last few days—while Draco's name was being cleared and the Ministry remained on campus to investigate—doing his own investigation into the magic on Dorea's diary. He had known it was blood magic. He had known he would need blood.

But a few days ago, Tom had no idea how much he needed. It was exactly the amount the human body could contain. And he had no intention of killing Draco, as irritating as the wizard had turned out to be.

The best option Tom could find to acquire this amount was blood replenishing magic. Blood replenishing potions were not an option. They were much too slow, and at that rate, it would take nearly a week to get the requisite amount of blood without killing Draco. That path was too high risk as he would either have to keep Draco for a week, causing another scandal, or continue to corner him, which added more opportunities for error.

So Tom had settled on some more complicated, slightly grayer magic instead: blood replenishing runes. The replenishment would be significantly more painful, but that seemed for the best.

The runes had to be written in blood. The most straightforward path would have been to use Draco's blood to make the runes, and then begin the ritual. However, as someone with a flair for the dramatic, Tom had opted to pre-write the runes using Lestrange's blood.

The look on Draco's face right now was worth the added hassle.

"My lord, I—"

"I didn't realize it took drawing runes to be addressed by my proper title," Tom cut him off offhandedly.

Draco's eyes moved quickly, back and forth between Tom and the runes before attempting to make a run for it. He didn't get far enough to disturb the intricate shapes on the ground; Tom threw him back, keeping him against the wall temporarily with a sticking charm.

"Is this about Hermione?" Draco asked quietly.

_Indirectly._ "I did not bring you here to chat. My reasons for this ritual are of no concern to you."

Draco looked as though he were having an internal struggle.

Tom was having one of his own.  _Did he really want to go down this road again? Would questioning Draco do anything to help his currently frosty relationship with Hermione?_

"My lord, she—" Draco hesitated, and Tom didn't want to press, didn't want to give him any power, even if it meant nothing. Draco would provide the needed blood for the blood magic.

Instead, Tom tested the waters: "Dreams about me? I know." Tom looked Draco dead in the eye while he said it, trying to assess if Draco had any other information. It seems he did. "And?"

"And nothing, my lord. You're correct."

Tom scoffed, flinging Draco to the middle of the runes with his wand and performing a Slicing Hex in rapid succession.

"Are you planning to kill me?"

Tom only sighed. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

Hermione felt hands gently shoved her and jerked up. She had almost fallen asleep—again.

"I'm sorry, Lyra, what were you saying?" She looked down as she spoke the words and inwardly cursed. The end of her curls had gotten into her pumpkin juice. This was one of the myriad reasons she had been avoiding breakfast in the Great Hall lately. The other was that her appetite was disturbed.

Lyra just sighed. "It's nothing."

The behavior was uncharacteristic and ignited the latent guilt Hermione felt for being a terrible friend to the witch adjacent to her.

"Please, Lyra. I'm sorry. My insomnia lately has been horrible."

"Why don't you get some Dreamless Sleep?" Todd piped up from across the table. It was almost odd that all three of them were sharing a meal again—Lyra and Todd had a cold relationship ever since the holidays, although no one would say exactly why, and Hermione was distant from nearly everyone but Draco.  _Or rather_ , she corrected herself miserably,  _distant from everyone_.

"I've reached my allotment, I'm afraid."

Todd's eyebrows knitted together. "I didn't know there was a limit."

"I think I may have been the first to reach it," Hermione said half under her breath, although both of her friends heard her.

"But, sincerely, Lyra, please repeat what you said. I'm fully awake this time." She tried to force a smile, but felt her cheeks slightly twitch instead.

Perhaps Lyra appreciated the effort, because she reluctantly responded. First, though, she ran her hand under her hair and down her neck. It was an odd gesture that seemed unconscious. Hermione looked down at her hand not under her curtain of hair and noticed that Lyra had been biting her nails, something else she hadn't done mere weeks ago. What had she missed?

"I had asked if you would go the village with me to shop." Also strange.

"But today isn't a Hogsmeade day," Hermione responded gently.

"I have special permission. I've already asked if I can bring you."

"Oh. Alright, then."


	36. Over The Edge

"You're getting sloppy," Draco spat out, some blood coming out with his words. Although Tom hadn't necessarily  _intended_  for Draco to cough up blood, he had also never drained an entire human body's worth of blood in twelve short hours.

"And yet you're the one getting blood on the floor," Tom quipped, trying to hide his frustration with having to use  _healing_ spells on the man across from him. But it was no good to leave marks.

Draco glanced at his watch. "We've missed breakfast by now."

"Yes, the two of us and half the student body miss breakfast on the weekend. Do you have a point?"

Draco shot him a hateful look. "You're so confident. Dumbledore has a pensieve. I could just give him this memory."

"Yes. You won't, though."

Draco just looked down at the ground in response. Tom forcefully lifted his head, causing the other wizard to clench his jaw with the pain—his entire body was likely sore.

Once Draco was looking into his eyes, Tom spoke to test the veracity of his statements. "I know you are from the future. Hermione came with an extensive repertoire of incriminating information on me. I suspect you did as well, and yet you have not attempted to share it with anyone. And so, I do not expect you to  _give_ anyone information when it comes to me."

"Do you want to know why I think that is?"

"Not really," Draco responded quietly, resentfully.

"I think—although you and Hermione are together right now—you know that we are inevitable. And you care about her too much to hurt her by turning me in for anything."

Draco swallowed as his eyes flashed with myriad emotions. Tom knew without digging any further into his mind that he was right.

"Hermione loves me," Draco replied with empty conviction. Whether it was from emotion, lack of sleep, or both, the wizard kept talking despite spending most of the night trying to stay quiet. "My dead body was her boggart."

Tom laughed. "And you think that means you two are in love? It means that she had to worry about your death. You're pathetic. Hermione will never have to worry about my death."

"She used to worry about your death all the time; let me clarify—she stayed up at night worrying you wouldn't die, trying to think of ways to kill you."

_"Crucio!"_

Once Tom remembered himself—that he was trying to heal the brat—he let up.

The disturbing thing was he could tell Draco was telling the truth.

Draco looked him dead in the eye, likely knowing full well that Tom was using Legilimency. "She came here to kill you."

An unfamiliar feeling hit Tom—he felt his stomach drop as a bitter taste fill his mouth. Panic.

Draco was telling the truth.

But what about when he felt Hermione—when he looked into her eyes— _but can I even read her any longer? Was I ever able to?_

Tom abandoned any attempt at trying to keep Draco at arm's length or refrain from questioning him.

Acknowledging that he couldn't do the spell nonverbally, Tom picked up his wand and abandoned any pretense.

"LEGILIMENS!"

Tom immediately recognized the Potions classroom as Draco's memory fell into view. Remembering his struggles last time he had entered a memory, Tom tried to forget what was happening in the present and be as much of a passive observer as he could manage.

He immediately recognized a boy who he would have thought was Abraxas if he didn't know better, sitting with two larger boys.

Tom spotted Hermione quickly; her hair was even bushier, her face rounder, and much shorter. They were probably about twelve.

He was surprised to see her clad in a Gryffindor uniform. Could people change houses over time?

The professor—an unpleasant-looking man—complimented Draco's potion and deemed Hermione's adequate. Tom knew the potion in question and empathized with Hermione's clear frustration; hers was at least as good as Draco's, if not better.

Hermione left the classroom first, and Tom felt himself pulled toward Draco, following him out instead. Draco eventually caught up to the younger Hermione, though.

"It's too bad your mum and dad never taught you how to make a proper potion."

Hermione glanced up from her notebook and glared at Draco with hatred he had never seen from her.

A red-headed boy next to her started to defend her, but Draco kept talking. "That's right, I forgot,  _mublood_ , your parents probably couldn't tell a potion from the cauldron."

The scene faded and a new one started to form. The feeling was odd—a bit like Apparition.

This time, Tom spotted Hermione first, although he could only spot the back of her head. Her bushy hair was sticking up in odd places and her body wracked with sobs.

Draco was standing behind her, staring at her with indecision and badly-concealed affection.

"Granger, it's after hours."

"Fuck off, Malfoy." She didn't bother turning around.

The indecision was back on Draco's face as he sighed and approached the shaking witch. It was clear years had passed, although it was impossible to say how many. "Granger, what's wrong?" He sat next to her tentatively—Tom used "next to" generously as the boy kept a decent distance between the two of them.

"Did you not hear me the first time? I don't want to talk to you—ever, in fact. If you're going to take points, take points. Although I'll take them right back. You're not exactly in bed, either."

"I'm patrolling."

"Fine. Take points, then."

"I don't want to take points, Granger. I wanted to see if you were alright. I couldn't help but notice—"

"I want to be alone. That's why I'm not in the common room, obviously," she snapped.

"Fine. I'll leave you alone. But if it's about Weasley, he's not worth it."

"Because he's a blood traitor, right? Did you forget I'm muggle-born?"

"No, I remember."

They shared an odd look before Draco walked away.

As the next memory faded into view, it was clear less time had passed. Hermione and Draco were both standing in one of the hallways near the Gryffindor common room.

"I know you're not on the schedule tonight, Malfoy."

"So take points, Granger," Draco demanded with arms crossed. There was some humor in both their eyes that night, though.

"First tell me why you're out. Taunting more crying women? That desperate?"

Draco was openly smirking now. "I wouldn't exactly call you an easy target, Granger, even when you are a wreck."

"What did you mean about Ron?"

"Lavender Brown, compared to you?"

Tom could tell Hermione was trying to suppress what she was feeling. "I know; she's a pureblood."

"And painfully dull."

Hermione swallowed and Draco closed in. Tom had to actively force himself to stay in the memory, to focus on the memory.

"You, on the other hand…"

"Are a muggle-born?"

"Yes." Draco leaned on Hermione such that their noses were grazing. "And incredible."

Hermione bit her lip before Draco replaced her teeth with his mouth. Tom watched them kiss for what felt like an eternity before he felt the now familiar jerk of being jostled to another memory.

Hermione's hand was on Draco's cheek, and Draco looked more familiar now—he had the sickly pale expression Tom was used to seeing on him.

"You don't understand, Hermione," he was saying in a panicked half-whisper, "even if I don't alert them, they'll come. It's fixed. Not telling them means I'm dead. Telling them means they come a little sooner."

"Dumbledore won't let Voldemort hurt you." Tom tried not to feel glee when Draco winced at his name.

"Hermione, you don't know, you don't know him."

"Look at me, Draco. I know that Harry will defeat him."

Draco scoffed. "You put too much faith in Potter."

"Then put your faith in me," Hermione responded with conviction. "If Harry doesn't kill him, I will."

She  _meant_ it.

Tom struggled to hold onto the thread; the memory shook so forcefully Tom thought he might be sick, but he held on.

Tom had to keep struggling as a new memory came into view. He recognized the scene immediately; it was around the time he had walked in on them in the library.

Finally, they broke contact and Hermione spoke.

"Draco, really. We should talk."

"Or we could talk later."

"Now. We need to talk now."

Draco broke contact, looking up at her with a startled expression. "You've met someone."

"Yes."

"How did I not even…"

"Not even?"

Draco smiled thinly. "I didn't even think of it as a possibility, really. Does my being back change anything?"

"Well, we're not together, but…"

"So what's the problem?"

"I'm in love with him."

"Who?"

"Draco, you have to promise me that you won't get too upset."

"Hermione, are you in love with my grandfather?"

"Ew, no!"

Tom smiled in satisfaction.

"Godric, Draco, it's—it's—Tom Riddle."

Tom held back his anger as he saw Draco's hand dig into Hermione's side. "Say it again."

"Draco—"

"I need to know that I heard you correctly."

"Tom Riddle."

"You-Know-Who."

"Draco, he's not—"

"Say it. You're in love with the Dark Lord."

"I won't say it because he's not Voldemort. Not really."

"They are the same person, Hermione."

"They are not the same—"

"HERMIONE!" Tom begun shaking with rage at Draco's treatment of Hermione.

Hermione looked somewhat fearful. "Draco, I know it's a lot to take in, but I can't change how I feel. It's fifty-five years earlier. You're being overly judgmental."

"So, what, when you came back you thought, he's not You-Know-Who yet, I'll just go ahead and snog him?!"

"No, that's not what happened."

"Was this Dumbledore's plan? For you two to fall in love? Is that why he sent you back?"

"Why would Dumbledore want us to fall in love? Not knowing love was Tom's weakness; Dumbledore wouldn't want to make him stronger."

"I was just guessing. That prophecy was such a fucking jumble."

"Prophecy?"

"Why am I not surprised by your confusion? Something about you and Tom. I don't remember the wording. It doesn't matter, anyway," Draco added angrily.

"Yes, it does. Draco, tell me what you remember."

"You really think you can boss me around right now, Hermione?"

Tom felt himself fall out of the memory. His anger with the wizard across him was the result, he was sure. How dare he talk to Hermione that way.

Or at least that's what he thought was the cause until he took enough stock of his surroundings to realize that Draco was completely passed out.


	37. Unraveling, Pt 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long unplanned hiatus! A lot of things in my life demanded my attention very suddenly and all at once. Things are calming down a bit now, and I've been getting back into writing again. I don't expect another long delay before the next chapter. Thanks to all of you for reading!

Tom wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. He had read before how exhausting legilimency could be, but this was the first time he had truly experienced it. He looked down at the lifeless form on the ground and cursed.

Tom felt along the wall as he walked toward the other side of the room, too weak to walk without assistance, before collapsing at the ground near Draco. He checked Draco's pulse the muggle way and breathed a sigh of relief when he felt the thumping of a heartbeat.

Leaning up against the wall and mostly out of breath, Tom tried to plan his next course of action but could only think of how he needed to think clearer. Remembering where he was—across the hall from Slughorn's potions lab—he crawled, actually crawled, for the door. He opened it just a crack as he glanced outside the hallways. Clear.

He dragged himself to Slughorn's lab and pulled a bottle of strengthening solution. Luckily, Slughorn's organization left something to be desired and it was doubtful the bottle—one of at least ten—would be missed.

Tom downed the solution and felt the cobwebs in his brain start to lift, and the life return to his limbs. Instead of waiting to feel completely fine, Tom gingerly stood and made his way back to the hallway, his mind running a mile a minute. _Hermione wanted to—_ Tom yanked himself from that line of thought as quickly as it had begun. There was no time. There was a passed out Draco and a suspicious headmaster to deal with first. And the diary.

* * *

Meanwhile, Hermione and Lyra were four butterbeers deep at the Hog's Head. Lyra had darted there when they arrived, insisting that shopping wouldn't take long.

"How did you get special permission?" Hermione finally asked, taking a big drink out of her butterbeer to keep up with her friend.

"I think Dumbledore feels bad for me." Lyra uttered a noise that sounded halfway between a chuckle and a scoff.

"Why would that be?"

"Remember how I said I wouldn't marry Lestrange?"

Hermione took in a sharp breath. "Yes."

Lyra just shook her head, exhaustion and defeat embedded in her features. "I was naïve. I thought that I could get a job at the Ministry to support myself while I get the Falcons off the ground. You know I have the second best marks in the class behind Riddle?"

"I didn't know," Hermione admitted in a soft voice. School had not been near the top of her priority list this year, and Lyra never showed off in class.

Lyra shrugged. "I thought it meant that I didn't have to follow the plans my parents set out for me, but I didn't get one interview. Not one."

"Why?" Hermione really hoped the answer wasn't unbridled sexism because she had no rich parents to marry her off.

"The Lestranges are well connected. My plans got back to Lestrange"—a furious expression crossed Lyra's expression so quickly it was nearly a twitch—"and he wasted no time telling his family, who made sure I didn't have any options other than bearing their heir."

"Lyra, I'm so sorry. I've been so involved with myself lately that I couldn't see that you were going through this. I want to be here for you, though."

Lyra nodded, not disputing Hermione's absence.

Hermione continued, "how did it get back to Lestrange?"

Lyra shook her head quickly, all of her usual serenity gone. "I can't say why he did it, but it was Todd." Her eyes began to water. "Other than having to marry Lestrange, the fact that he would do that… It feels like a thestral is standing on my chest. Merlin, it _hurts_ , Hermione."

And that was all she was capable of saying as she buried her head on the table and her slight body wracked with sobs.

Hermione slid in the booth next to her and held her hand while her friend cried.

* * *

A little while later, the purpose of the trip became clear: Lyra needed to purchase a wedding dress.

"My sister-in-law wanted to choose, but I managed to convince my father that I should at least select my attire," Lyra explained as she ran her hand over a black lace and sequin dress.

Hermione had learned from the witches who ran the store that white was considered incredibly muggle—witches typically wore black or other dark hues.

Considering Lyra's penchant for loud colors, though, Hermione was surprised to see her interested in a black piece.

"I'll take it," Lyra announced as she levitated the black dress onto the counter.

"Don't you want to try it on, dear?" The shopkeeper asked in a kind voice.

"No need," Lyra responded. "Please charge it to the Lestrange account and send it to the Lovegood residence. I don't want it—I mean, I don't want to take it with me," Lyra corrected herself, seeming overwhelmed.

She didn't wait for the shopkeeper to respond as she swung open the door to leave. Hermione rushed after her.

"Shouldn't we go toward the carriages?"

"Now that we have completed our task, we can really drink," Lyra announced, her voice determined if not a little shaky from unshed tears.

After they ordered four shots of firewhisky—"no need to come right back," Lyra had explained—they settled in at a table and toasted to not being married yet.

"We've talked about me all day," Lyra noted, tracing the rim of her empty shotglass. "What happened to you and Tom, Hermione?"

"I fell out of love with him," Hermione answered with a forced shrug, hoping not to answer more questions.

"I can tell," Lyra commented. "But I don't understand it, not really."

"Me either," Hermione confessed. "I think he crossed a line and I just couldn't accept that."

"Well," Lyra said with a crooked smile, "if you two can't make it, I don't know who can."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Hermione snapped, feeling defensive of her relationship with Draco.

"Drinking unicorn blood couldn't feel more unnatural than the two of you not together. It seemed like it was destiny," Lyra continued wistfully.

"Well, it wasn't. D—Abraxas and I are meant to be together."

Lyra nodded half-heartedly. "He seems desperate for you, for your approval." Lyra's eyes were glazed over, staring at the wall instead of her friend, and her voice was matter of fact. Hermione felt her blood pressure rising, and it wasn't only the alcohol.

"Are you saying he doesn't love me?" Hermione could hear the venom in her voice, and apparently Lyra could as well because she shifted backward in her seat, away from Hermione.

"That's not what I said. I don't mean to offend you. Just—"

"Just what?" Hermione asked in warning.

Lyra didn't respond, instead asking quietly, "Won't you take care of him? He's a wonderful person."

"Of course I'll take care of him," Hermione responded irritably. "We're very much in love."

"You're right," Lyra sighed, taking her second shot.

* * *

Tom had no choice—he had to disillusion Draco's barely breathing body and leave it behind while he found Lestrange. As there was no possibility Draco wouldn't be missed at dinner, Tom needed Lestrange to start mining his connections for immediate access to Polyjuice.

Luckily, his follower was exactly where he expected him to be: in the Common Room. He didn't have to approach Lestrange, though, because he turned to Tom in a panic and requested an audience.

Tom lacked the energy to be concerned, so he merely nodded and went up to their shared dorm room. Avery was there already.

"I don't mean to intrude, my Lord," Avery greeted him with his head hung low.

"Stay, Avery. This might concern you."

Lestrange wasted no time conveying the sources of his anxiety. "During the morning post, a letter came from Draco. The trouble is, I think Dumbledore saw me take it." It was clear to Tom now that a significant source of Lestrange's anxiety concerned Tom's reaction. Not feeling very charitable, Tom's face remained passive.

"Who was the note from, Lestrange?"

"Dumbledore. Confirming detention, my Lord."

Tom lost his cool. _"Fuck,"_ he cursed as he inadvertently sent Lestrange's desk flying across the room. He didn't have time for this; he needed to get back to Draco.

"Do you have any information on this, Avery?"

"No, my Lord," Avery's voice shook slightly with fear.

"Can you levitate a body? Do not lie."

"Yes, my Lord," Avery responded eagerly, clearly happy to be of use.

"Abraxas is passed out in the classroom across the hall from the Potions classroom, disillusioned," Tom explained flatly. "He failed me," Tom added for good measure. Once Avery saw the state "Abraxas" was in, he would be spurred by fear. "First, go across the hall and take healing potions from Slughorn's store—whatever looks like it might be useful, but don't take more than a quarter of any of his stock. He may be disorganized, but he is not entirely inept. After you collect the potions, levitate the body to the Room of Requirement where we've had our practices." Tom hesitated before continuing; he had kept the secret of the room for many years now, but it was necessary. "In order to activate the room, pass the space on the wall three times and think about what you need the room for. Once you're in, you can remove the disillusionment charm and begin healing him."

Avery nodded fiercely throughout Tom's entire explanation.

"Are my instructions clear?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"Then _go_ , rush without drawing attention to yourself." Avery took off, not needing any other prompting.

"Now," Tom said, turning to Lestrange. "As for this detention…"


	38. Unraveling, Pt 2

It wasn't difficult for Tom to don a Malfoy-esque scowl, irritated as he was with his plight of having to pose as the pathetic spawn of his late follower. He had attempted to heal Malfoy throughout the day with the help of Lestrange and Avery but was ultimately glad of his foresight in asking Lestrange to procure polyjuice. Malfoy was still unconscious by the time dinner rolled around, and Tom had decided it was best to go to dinner as well as detention so that the younger Malfoy wasn't missed at too many meals. He dragged Avery with him, not wanting to create more suspicion than necessary. As it were, Lestrange and Tom were seemingly absent. Lestrange was more trustworthy and more skilled, so it made sense to leave him with Malfoy. And better to keep an eye on Avery when possible.

It was going to be a several hour affair, so he brought some of the potion with him. He would have to be creative with taking it in front of Dumbledore, but Tom had no concerns about being unequal to the task. He kept things light at dinner, chatting idly with Avery about Quidditch.

Ultimately, Tom left for detention early, preferring to wander the castle rather than continue the mundane conversation with his follower. Besides, he was still irritated with Avery for going to the hospital wing after Tom tortured him—what if Madam Ward had detected the Torture Curse? It would be an odd thing to check for, but still an unacceptable risk to take.

As he was walking, he saw Hermione step into view at the end of the hall.

"Abraxas!" Hermione shouted after Tom as they approached one another in the hall. Without ceremony, she dragged him into an empty classroom. Assuming that she intended the repeat the activities that had landed "Abraxas" in detention, Tom felt mixed emotions. On the one hand, it was impossible to deny how much he not only missed her but craved her. But to have her like this—as _another_ wizard—an _inferior_ wizard? Even she did not seem worth degrading himself in that manner.

Regardless, he misread her intention. She immediately began to lecture him about his failure to transfigure his eyes, the dangers he was exposing himself to, and how he needed to take this more seriously. The more she spoke, the more difficult it was for Tom to suppress a smirk. _This_ was her great love? Treating Draco like a child? She would never have spoken to Tom in that manner because she considered him a true equal. If he had not transfigured his eyes, she would have presumed he had a purpose because she presumed him competent.

"What are you smirking at, Malfoy? I know you wanted space but that does _not_ mean I'm going to stand by and watch you engage in these self-destructive behaviors."

_Space_? Although Malfoy's request suited Tom just fine, he couldn't help but feel anger. How dare Malfoy presume to want space from Hermione, who was his superior in every way?

"Now hold still," Hermione demanded before whispering _Caeruleus_.

Tom remembered it, internally groaning at the realization that he would have to take Polyjuice on the hour _and_ re-transfigure his eye color as the potion likely would override the prior spell.

"Thanks, Hermione," Tom drawled, assuming that Draco would thank her.

"No need to be so cold, Draco. I get it. I'm leaving now."

Hermione looked like she was about to cry, which only made Tom angry, so he excused himself with a simple, "I'll go. Detention won't serve itself."

She merely nodded, turning away from him as he left. Tom, on the other hand, was fuming. _Tears?_ For Malfoy?

But as Tom neared detention, he continued to mull over the impromptu meeting. There had been something nagging him but he was too distracted to interpret it at the time: although Hermione didn't say anything specifically, there was a current of untruthfulness under all her words. It wasn't overt as the feeling Tom had when someone was lying, more like something was tainted.

Tom had to dismiss his thoughts as he found himself almost outside his least favorite professor's door. First, he ducked into a corridor and took a swig of Polyjuice. He conjured a mirror. Just as he suspected, his eyes were gray once more. He attempted to perform the charm silently in front of the mirror and was relieved to see it worked perfectly.

Tom carried that feeling of triumph with him as he made his way to Professor Dumbledore's office, lightly knocking.

"Come in," Dumbledore's voice called out. Tom smirked; he recognized that voice for what it was—similar to the tone Dumbledore used to address him. Apparently, there was no love lost between the headmaster and the other Malfoy. This made the upcoming performance much easier to pull off.

* * *

Draco groaned as his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the room he found himself in. He felt lightheaded and there was a dull but persistent throbbing near the front of his head.

"Ah, you're awake." The voice belonged to one of his grandfather's friends—Avery or Lestrange? Perhaps Lestrange.

"Lestrange, where are we?"

"Your favorite room," Lestrange sneered, "although I imaging you prefer it when you're in here with Prewett."

_Prewett?_ It took Draco a moment to remember the word as Hermione's false last name.

"You have me there," Draco responded drily, coughing and tasting the unmistakable copper of blood. His hazy thoughts tried to reason why there would be blood in his mouth and then remembered where he had passed out. And he felt his blood—or what was left of it—run cold. Riddle knew everything. He had confirmation that Hermione was a time traveler and Draco, in his stupid blood-depleted state, had somehow decided that it was wise to tell the Dark Lord that Hermione had time traveled in order to murder him. He had to find Hermione.

Summoning what strength he had, Draco bolted for the door.

Lestrange lazily levitated him, setting him down gently on the floor before paralyzing him completely. "Abraxas, I don't want to hurt you more, but you're making that rather difficult. Perhaps you can behave better with the Body Bind Curse to aid you."

* * *

"Tea, Mr. Malfoy?"

"No thank you, Professor," Tom responded shortly. He knew Dumbledore well enough to know that drugging was not outside the realm of possibility.

"I could not help but notice at dinner tonight that your eyes were not transfigured. I thought you had made a habit of doing it in the morning." Dumbledore's tone was seemingly light, but Tom knew him well enough to sense the accusation underlying it.

"You may have notice I overslept this morning, Professor. You know how it is—once a routine is thrown off, it can affect your entire day. Luckily Hermione also noticed my error and approached me after dinner."

"Very well," Dumbledore responded mildly. "I am glad that Ms. Prewett is keeping an eye out for you. I would hate to see what would happen if someone else noticed—such as the person that killed your grandfather."

Their eyes met briefly, and Tom knew he was unable to suppress his hatred for the man across from him, hoping that Dumbledore would interpret it as hatred for Tom instead. "There is no need to remind me of the possible consequences, Professor. My grandfather's funeral, though informal, is burned in my memory." Tom added the last bit because it was the most detailed information he knew about the relationship between Draco and Dumbledore. It seemed to work because Dumbledore's eyebrow quirked in surprise before giving Tom several stacks of papers to alphabetize. Tom paid attention to the clock, but he was dismissed before the hour was up, Dumbledore citing a headache that Tom decided was almost certainly fake.

From there, Tom went straight to the Room of Requirement, surprised to see Draco awake and pleased to see him paralyzed. "You have done well, Lestrange, and you will be rewarded."

Greed flashed in Lestrange's eyes before he bowed his head slightly. "My lord, it is an honor to serve you." Tom displayed no surprise at Lestrange's behavior, which was even more obsequious than normal.

"You are dismissed, Lestrange. I will take it from here."

Lestrange slipped out with another "my lord."

Tom undid the spell on the face only so that he could converse with the newly awake Malfoy. "Malfoy, I trust there is no need to explain that you must keep quiet about the events of the last day." Tom felt his features change and rolled his head luxuriously as he reveled in being returned to himself. "As for me impersonating you, I served your detention and attended dinner. Do not attempt to make excuses for either. As for breakfast, you merely overslept. Lestrange and Avery saw you in the dormitory last night, naturally."

"Naturally," Draco said with spite.

"Is there anything else you would like to say?"

"No." Draco sounded exhausted and defeated.

"Well, you seem well enough now. I do _hope_ we can stop meeting like this," Tom said with a laugh.

"Me too."

* * *

A short time later, Tom was finally alone with over a gallon of his rival's blood and Dorea's diary. He set aside a bit of blood—once he initially used Draco's blood to open it, he would only have to use a negligible amount, just as Dorea herself would have used it.

He poured the main portion of the blood directly onto the book. The book didn't flinch but soaked the blood up easily as though it were water. At first, Tom became concerned it wouldn't work. And then the diary began to grow vertically, its seeming number of pages rapidly multiplying, before springing open to the first page, which read, in unfrivolous print:

_Property of Dorea Black, 1939_ —

Tom's smile was triumphant as he began to search, not knowing what he was looking for, only that there must be _something_.


End file.
